


Dress My Body All in Flowers White

by othellia



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Dark, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, F/M, Friends to Enemies, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:47:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 29,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25419442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/othellia/pseuds/othellia
Summary: The year is 1878. William Pratt is an auditor for the Watcher's Council. Buffy Summers is a recently kidnapped Potential. When she refuses to obey the Council's orders, William is forced to make a choice—stand back and allow the girl's execution... or take her and flee.
Relationships: Spike/Buffy Summers
Comments: 45
Kudos: 74





	1. Act I - Chapter I

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to what's gonna be my second super long epic for this fandom. It will be four acts.
> 
> Buffy does start out as a twelve-year-old girl, but she won't stay that way. Any Spuffy will _not_ be underage Spuffy. If you've read my other BtVS story, Every Letter That You Write Me, you'll know how this goes.
> 
> For characters, I'll add them as they come into the story to avoid spoilers.
> 
> Overall, hope you all enjoy! This outline's been bouncing around in my head for at least the past year, so I'm super excited to start sharing it. Special shoutout to OffYourBird for beta'ing and being an all-around awesome person. <3
> 
>   
> 

**London — 1878**

Hotel in Budapest (one week): 25 shillings.

Suit repair from multiple, foot-long gashes: 10 shillings.

Abokuxian amulet for use in Oemak's Binding Spell: 32 pounds.

William frowned. He stared at the spot in the reimbursement form where Fauntleroy had jotted down the supposed expenditure. Unless the price had spiked in the last month…

Reaching beneath his small, cluttered desk, William withdrew his account book of the previous month. He flipped through its pages until he reached the record of Mr. Edgar Whidbly’s excursion to Prague. Just as he’d thought—Abokuxian amulet: 11 pounds.

With a shake of his head, William noted the discrepancy. It wasn’t in his power as a junior clerk to directly deny reimbursement, but he could send it up the chain for official review. Then he proceeded with his audit. Luckily, there were no other glaring errors. After signing off on the last line, he leaned back and shook out the cramp that threatened to consume his left hand.

Only twelve more expense reports to go.

His stomach growled. It must’ve been nearing lunch by now, surely. He checked his pocket watch, only to find that it’d stopped. Again. William held his breath as he wound it, hoping… but alas.

It was dead.

William sighed.

He’d have to drop by the watchmaker sometime this week, and until then…

Sidling between the edges of his desk and the wall—his office wasn’t much more than a glorified broom closet—William managed to squeeze out the door and into the austere corridors of Griverston Hall. Oak-paneled walls funneled him through his search for a fellow coworker to inquire the time from. Now and then, portraits of long dead Watchers cast down their disapproving gazes.

Finally, a snatch of whispers reached his ears.

Two men were huddled together at the top of a staircase. Watchers from the field—Huxley and Rowe. Neither seemed to notice his approach.

“Still completely feral, I’m afraid,” Rowe said, his face flushed and neck bulging at his collar. In his right hand he carried a handkerchief, clearly used.

“I _warned_ you.” Huxley pulled back his sleeve to reveal a reddish bite mark on his forearm. “Been over a week now. The doctor suspects it will leave a scar.”

“Blast it…” Rowe muttered. “Mark my words, she’ll be dead within the month if she keeps it up.”

“Is that a v-vampiric bite?” William asked. He’d heard of the council keeping live specimens for research purposes, but it was rare, and he hadn’t been aware of any recently.

The two Watchers turned, stared at him, and then laughed.

“If only,” Huxley said. “Less chance for infection.”

“Compensation for the rendering of dangerous services as well,” Rowe added. “No, Huxley here unfortunately had the honor of a nasty run-in with a little human girl.”

William blinked. “A girl…” he repeated. “But…”

“Maitland’s charge,” Rowe said. “From America. No surprise a Yankee ends up wilder than any of the Pygmies and Aborigines we’ve ever collected.” He shook his head. “He lost control of the girl months ago. Gave her up to Lockwood, who gave her up to Huxley…”

“Daft thing to do,” Huxley said, lifting the arm with the bite mark. “Rowe wagered he could tame her. That he could last longer than me. Now he owes me five guineas.”

Rowe scowled as he dabbed at his face with his handkerchief. “That I apparently do.”

William frowned. “Who is Watching her now?”

“The girl?” Rowe asked. “No one. Possessed by the devil, she is. No other Watcher will take her.”

“Which means…” Huxley blithely drew his finger across his neck. “But try telling _her_ that.”

William’s mind was blank as it raced to catch up with what the two men had just implied. “You’d kill an innocent girl,” he said blankly.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Rowe muttered.

“But— But there must be another way,” William protested. “The Watchers Council exists to fight evil, not murder children!”

“And what’s _more_ evil, Pratt?” Rowe asked. “Taking care of this problem in an admittedly distasteful way now? Or risk the girl inheriting the power of the Slayer and becoming an unstoppable rogue force, capable of untold evils the likes of which our God-given earth has never seen?”

William swallowed. All the Watchers—active or retired—knew more about the hard truths of the world than the clerks ever would, and yet… “Does Lord Travers know of this?”

Huxley let out a loud snort. “Know? It’s been his main headache since December.Remember how we were all calling him Scrooge during the holidays?”

“I see…” William said, heart sinking. If the head of the entire Council was already aware of the situation and bereft of ideas to fix it… “Even so,” he said, refusing to give up. “There must be another way.”

“What do you propose we do?” Huxley asked. “Rowe was the last Watcher who’d take her.”

An idea suddenly seized hold of William.

An utterly mad idea.

“I… I could take her,” he said.

Rowe and Huxley looked at each other before dissolving into raucous laughter.

“You, Pratt?” Rowe said. “You’re a clerk!”

“You’d have no idea how to take care of a regular Potential,” Huxley added, “let alone a feral one.”

William winced. “I admit I have not been prepared for the task,” he said. “But surely I could at least try… that is, if the girl’s only choices would be myself or execution…”

Rowe and Huxley traded a final look.

* * *

“Elizabeth Summers, age twelve,” Lord Travers intoned, reading off a report from behind his great mahogany desk. “Daughter of Mr and Mrs Hank Summers. Place of Origin—Los Angeles, California. The New World.” He lowered the papers and stared at William over the sharp rims of his spectacles. “Are you certain you won’t abandon this folly? Each person who attempts to take up her case… It’s simply delaying the inevitable, and putting this great organization through more heartache than it should.”

William swallowed. He’d never been seated one-on-one with Lord Travers before.The man had an imposing presence. “On the contrary, my lord,” he managed. “I do not believe your inevitable _is_ inevitable. Miss Summers is an innocent, and deserves—”

Travers coughed. “Did Huxley show you the chunk of flesh she nearly tore out of his arm?”

William went silent. “He did.”

“And having seen that, you still wish to proceed.”

“I… I do.”

Travers let out a wordless grumble and leaned back in his leather chair. His fingertips pressed against each other as he studied William. “Have you much interaction with children in your short life, Mr. Pratt?”

“Not as such,” William admitted. “But—”

“So what makes you think you’ll succeed where so many have already failed?”

“I do not have much confidence, I admit…” William said, twisting his hands together. “But I know what is right. And what is wrong. And given that burden of conscience, I must at least _try_.”

Travels exhaled a long-suffering sigh. “Very well.” He rummaged through his desk and pulled out a thick ring of keys. “Perhaps Miss Summers will be more successful at educating you than I.”

He stood and gestured for William to follow. Together, they silently descended through Griverston Hall, four straight flights of stairs into the basement. The light was dim here, gas lamps casting flickering shadows on raw stone. William’s nose itched from the accumulation of dust. In truth, this area was more dungeon than basement, a legacy of a more ancient and brutal era. The only thing of Griverston that had survived the great fires of London.

“Is this truly necessary?” William asked as they began to pass steel door after steel door. “Surely we can provide a twelve-year-old girl—even a wild one—with better accommodations than these?”

Travers simply gave him a sad look. Finally, he stopped beside one door and unlocked it. As it swung open, William caught sight of a decent room, as far as Potentials’ quarters went. The floor was wood, not stone, and the walls were papered in an inoffensive paisley print. There was a bed on the far side of the room, unadorned but sturdy, with a matching commode tucked against the wall beside it. On the wall hung a painting of the Yorkshire Dales.

The only issue was the girl loosely handcuffed to the bed.

She glared at both of them from beneath a tangled nest of dirty-blonde hair, a wild glint in her eyes. Hard. Animalistic. Her dress must’ve been nice once, as pale blue as a robin’s egg, but it was crumpled and filthy now.

William’s stomach churned. “We’ve already locked her in this room,” he whispered to Travers. “Must she be cuffed as well?”

“Second week here, she destroyed the gas lamps,” Travers replied coolly. “Nearly burnt the whole hall to the ground. So, would you rather we chain her up with light? Or leave her alone in the dark?”

William opened his mouth, but no answer came out.

“Don’t get too close,” Travers warned. “Otherwise we may have two funerals to plan.” And then he left, closing the door behind him.

William awkwardly turned back to Miss Summers. Elizabeth. She hadn’t moved. Hadn’t spoken. Just kept watching him with those hard, haunted eyes.

William cleared his throat. “My name is William Pratt,” he said with a small bow of his head. “How do you do?”

As Elizabeth remained silent, he realized the silliness of the question. Of course she didn’t do well. Her current incarceration was testament to that. His eyes swept over her uncombed, matted hair and lingered on her wrists. Red scabs ringed the place where iron lay locked around them.

“I… I’ve heard of your… umm, situation,” he tried again. “And I’d like to help if possible.”

It wasn’t natural, the way she seemed to stare straight through him.

Her mouth finally opened. “Are you going to take me home?” she asked in a raspy voice.

William swallowed. Rowe and Huxley had told him of her family back in California and how the girl had been taken from them, but such was the fate of all Potentials. There was nothing he could about that. “Not… as such.”

Elizabeth continued to stare at him, and then turned her face aside. “Then I don’t want your help,” she said to the wall.

“Why not?”

“Because you’re just another one of _them_.”

“That’s not true.”

He watched Elizabeth’s throat move as she swallowed. The hard glint in her eyes seemed to crack. “Then why won’t you let me go home?” she asked.

“Because… Because I can’t,” William said helplessly. “That’s not how it’s done. All Potentials are taken here.”

“I don’t want to _be_ a Potential. I want to go home.”

“You can’t…”

“I want to go home!” Elizabeth snapped. She rolled off the bed and was halfway across the room before the chains pulled tight. She struggled against them, crying. “Let me see my mother! Let me go _home_!”

William stepped back. “I…”

“Why won’t you let me go home?!”

William swallowed. He’d read books on how to de-escalate emotional situations, but this… He didn’t know how to handle this. “Excuse me a moment,” he said, ducking into the hallway as she started to outright sob. His heart wrenched as he shut the door behind him.

“Finished already?” Travers said, checking his pocket watch with an entirely too smug expression. William’s fists clenched.

“This is not a conducive environment for her,” he said.

“Well, that’s obvious. Unfortunately, we don’t have the luxury of conducive…”

“The girl is clearly traumatized by the loss of her family. Is there any possible way we could arrange for her to receive her training in Califor—”

“Absolutely not,” Travers snapped. His pocket watch followed suit, disappearing into his breast pocket. “All Potentials discovered above a certain age give us this problem. They are all broken in time. A Slayer must be above the bonds of blood and kin. Her duty is to the entire world, not one family of it. If we let Miss Summers have her way now, think of the things she would demand as a Slayer. This a seed of chaos. If we are not able to uproot it, then the whole garden must be destroyed.” His face hardened. “Or the consequences will be unimaginable.”

William stared at the older man, at a loss for words.

“We all informed you of the difficulties, Mr. Pratt,” Travers continued. “It’s your fault you somehow believed you could make a difference where your trained peers could not.”

With a shake of his head, he fingered through his ring of keys until he found the one to Elizabeth’s room—Elizabeth’s cell—and locked it. Once that was done, he passed William and began to walk away. His footsteps echoed in the barren darkness.

“I’m not finished,” William heard himself say.

Travers stopped.

“It— It may be a fool’s errand,” William continued, his voice shaking and heart pounding. “And perhaps that makes me a fool for attempting it, but…” He straightened his posture. “I refuse to give up on Miss Summers. I will visit her every day. I will help her understand her destiny.”

Lord Travers turned. His face was an imperturbable mask.

“You have two weeks,” he said. 


	2. Act I - Chapter II

Elizabeth sat huddled on the bed with her cuffed arms wrapped around her knees, seemingly deaf to William as he attempted to teach her the history of the Slayer. He _had_ hoped to make Elizabeth understand the good that the Slayer brought to the world and, through that, hoped to make an impact where so many other methods had failed. Judging from the way her eyes continued to glaze over, apparently not.

“Why do you hate me?” she suddenly asked in the middle of a tale.

William flinched. He looked up from the history book, straightened his spine against the back of his stiff chair, and forced himself to meet her eyes. “I don’t hate you.”

“Right… Is that why you keep these on?” She lifted her wrists, making the chains rattle. “Why you keep going on and on about stupid stuff I don’t care about?”

William frowned. He wanted to tell Elizabeth that he’d remove the chains if it was within his power to do so. Wanted to tell her that he wasn’t like the other Council members. But even if she accepted that reasoning, what good would its resulting favor do if it only further poisoned her opinion of everyone else?

“I don’t have the key,” he said simply.

“Oh.” She looked down at her socked feet. “So, you just do what they tell you?”

“I… I do what I think is right. And I trust _them_ to do what’s right.” His eyes flicked from her chains over to the walls and their distinct lack of windows. “Even if it doesn’t seem like it at the time.”

Elizabeth didn’t respond.

William returned to his book, trying to recover his position in the text. His eyes scanned a couple paragraphs before giving up. He closed it sharply.

“Tell me about your family,” he said. He hadn’t learned much over the past couple days, other than the basics that had been pre-written in her file. She’d lived alone with her mother in a small boarding house in southern California. No mention of the father, though he was presumably missing, not dead.

Elizabeth stayed silent.

“I’d like to know more about them,” William continued. He tilted his head, trying to get a better read of her increasingly blank face. “Know more about you.”

“Why?” Elizabeth said.

“Because I…” He paused before he repeated his desire to simply know more about her, only with slightly different phrasing. The girl clearly wasn’t in the mood to share yet. “I can tell you about my family instead, if you’d prefer that.”

“I don’t care about your family.”

“Not that there’s too much to talk about. Just Mother and I,” he said as though she’d heartily agreed. “She’s blonde, like you, though with a bit more curl. She passed it on to me. Perhaps you’ve been able to tell?” He chuckled awkwardly, running his fingers through a strand.

Elizabeth suffered him a single glance.

“My father died some time back. Working for the Watcher’s Council, actually. Mother was originally a little reluctant for me to follow in his stead, but ultimately came to understand the need to preserve his legacy.”

“That’s stupid.”

“Hmm?”

Elizabeth adjusted herself. Looked at him squarely for the first time that day. “You’re just gonna get yourself killed, and then your mom will be alone.”

“Well… I do plan on _not_ dying.”

Her face hardened. “I planned on not getting kidnapped.”

“Right… Well, that’s…” He scratched at his collar.

“You all act like I’m going to forget that and forgive you. But I’m not.” She crossed her arms, letting the chains clink. “So, let me go already or kill me.”

William took a sharp breath. “You can’t— Th-That’s not…” His voice stuck in his throat. No one was supposed to have told her about the future blade hanging over her neck. No one had prepared him for this. “Would you rather be dead? Truly?”

Elizabeth stiffened, then sniffed. “What difference does it make?”

“What difference?” He held up the history book. “You’ll be able to defend the innocent! Help the helpless!”

Elizabeth was silent for a long time. “Maybe,” she admitted softly. “But… that won’t be me.”

“What?” William blinked. “What do you mean?”

She looked down at her rumpled sheets. “Say I agree to do the things you tell me… Say I give up on my family and become this… _warrior_ who somehow cares about the world but not any of the people in it… Maybe the person who does all of that will look like me, and maybe even talk like me…” She looked at William. “But it won’t be _me_.”

William opened his mouth. He tried to tell Elizabeth that she was wrong, that the path to becoming the Slayer was one of growth and enlightenment, but nothing came out. Instead, he attempted to revert the conversation back to simpler topics—once, twice, three times—but he’d lost her. Her gaze was vacant and her temperament unresponsive. Eventually, he was forced to leave for the day.

Quentin Travers’ assistant, a man even younger than William by the name of Robert Poole, was waiting for him outside. Not Travers himself. Apparently the Lord of Griverston Hall had far more important matters which required his attention.

Poole cleared his throat. “Lord Travers wishes to remind you that only ten days remain—”

“I know how much time remains!” William snarled. He started alongside Poole, the burst of rage surprising him. “My apologies,” he quickly amended. He swallowed in embarrassment. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“Indeed…” Poole said.

William stared at the young man for a moment, searching for any speck of empathy towards either himself or the girl chained up on the other side of the door, and then quickly left before his temper could seize hold of him a second time.

* * *

William fidgeted, muscles aching from the stacks of journals in his arms, as he waited for Robert Poole to unlock Miss Summers’ prison door. However, even the wait couldn’t dampen his spirits. After a week of frustrations, he was _finally_ beginning to make a semblance of progress. Yesterday, Elizabeth had asked him about what it meant to become a Potential and what kind of life awaited for her in the Griverston dorms.

Which had been most good because he was running out of time.

Finally the lock clicked, and Poole opened the door. William hurriedly stepped inside.

“Miss Summers, I’ve collected further information on the experiences of other—”

He froze. Elizabeth was lying face down on the bed, unmoving.

“Miss Summers?” he asked.

She didn’t respond.

The journals fell out of his arms. “Miss Summers!” He raced for the bed and turned her over. Her eyes were closed. His hands swept over her face, then down to her neck for a pulse—

It was there.

William paused for a moment, confused, and then she struck. Elizabeth looped her chains around his neck, dragging his body into hers. He let out a startled cry, but her grip held firm.

The commotion brought Robert Poole into the room.

“Let me go,” Elizabeth told him. “Or he dies.”

“Miss Summers,” William attempted. “Please. You don’t want to—” He choked as the iron links dug deeper into his throat.

Robert Poole stared at them blankly. William pleaded to him with his eyes. The man had to start running _now_. Summon the Griverston guardsmen. Find some sort of—

“Then he dies,” Poole simply said.

Elizabeth’s hands tightened on either side of William’s neck. Her whole body was trembling.William felt her breath behind him, and then she yanked back, cutting off his remaining breath. “I mean it! I really do!”

“P-P—” William sputtered out, trying to beg Elizabeth for his own life, but he couldn’t find any air.His hands scrambled backwards to throw her off. They pawed uselessly at the rumpled cotton of her dress, unable to find purchase. The world grew somehow sharper and hazier at the same time…

And then he blacked out.

When William came to with a painful gasp, he was lying on the floor. Cold wood stung his cheek. He groaned, vaguely aware of shouting. It gradually coalesced into intelligible speech.

“I hate you! I hate _all_ of you! I wish you’d die!”

William rubbed his neck as he turned to stare at the bed. Two guardsmen had arrived. They were pinning Elizabeth to the mattress as she kicked and screamed. Robert Poole stood by the main door. Lord Travers was at his side.

He did not look pleased.

* * *

The chill in Travers’ office plucked at the open edges of William’s coat, leaving goose bumps in its wake. He rubbed his neck again. The ache from Elizabeth’s chains hadn’t faded one bit.

“I admit I’m not disappointed in your progress,” Lord Travers said from behind his desk. William paused with his hand still on his neck. “I’m disappointed in my naive hope that you could make any progress in the first place.”

William swallowed—its own new category of pain. “Sir,” he entreated. “I am close. I swear it.With just a few more days…”

“What? And give her the chance to finish the job?” Travers scoffed, gesturing at William’s neck. “No. I’m officially declaring this mad experiment over and done with. It is time this organization moved on.”

William’s hand dropped. “What?” he said. “But what about Miss Summers?”

“What about her?” Travers’ gaze hardened into a glare. “The girl has had more than enough chances, and has only proceeded to grow more violent with each of them. It is a hard decision… but she must be disposed of.”

William’s stomach lurched.

“Oh, don’t give me that face, Mr. Pratt,” Travers said. “It’s just as distasteful for me as it is for you. The only difference is that I’m the one who has managed to accept the truth of its necessity.”

“But, sir…”

“Take the rest of the week off. Recover at home if you must, but my decision on this matter is final.”

“But—”

“Final,” Travers snapped. “Understood?”

William took a slow and painful breath, swallowed, and then reluctantly nodded. Travers gestured for him to leave the office, and as the door swung shut behind him, that was it. Everything was over. There was nothing else he could do. There was nothing else he could be _expected_ to do.

His chest felt heavy all the same.

* * *

It took William exactly thirty-four minutes to walk from the entrance of Griverston Hall to his terraced house in the north-end of Marylebone. The same thirty-four minutes it always took. And yet he was thoroughly spent by the end of it. He stopped for several minutes at the bottom of the steps to his house, gazing dully up at its hunter green door, before he finally managed the strength to make it inside.

“William?” his mother’s voice called from the parlor. “Is that you? You’re home early.” When he didn’t immediately respond, she stepped out into the hallway. Her smile gave way to a frown creased her otherwise lovely face. “Has something happened?”

He stared at her, lost at where to begin.

He hadn’t told his mother anything about Elizabeth Summers. He hadn’t known how. While he’d been more stressed during their nightly suppers, he’d managed to shoo away her worries with a rather droll tale about an upcoming council-wide audit.

But now…

“Get your coat off at least and make yourself at home,” his mother commanded as she strode forward. Too late her fingers ventured toward his collar. “You’d think you were a stranger in your own—” She gasped, drawing back. “William!”

He couldn’t see what she gazed horrifyingly at. He didn’t have to.

“What happened?” his mother breathed.

“N-Nothing,” William attempted. “It’s an… an aberration. It won’t…” He swallowed. Felt the bruises as his mind imagined Miss Summers’ fate all over again. “It won’t happen again.”

“I should say not!” She finished pulling his coat off and pushed lightly against his back. “In! Into the parlor at once!”

Like a common sheep, he let himself be herded onto the settee. His mother seated herself beside him, fretting and muttering unintelligibly as she examined his neck up close.

“Have you become a Watcher?” she suddenly asked.

William jerked. Spun to face her. “What?! No!” He paused. “Well… yes, in a way,” he admitted. By accepting primary guardianship of Miss Summers, he had indeed _theoretically_ taken on the role… “I mean, no! I would never—! Not without first…”

His mother sat, listening to his rambling nonsense with watery eyes.

Oh, he was making a mess out of this too.

William reached for her hands and cradled them gently. “I know what being a Watcher entails,” he told her. “I know what Father sacrificed for the world… What _you_ sacrificed along with him…” His grip tightened. “I promise to never make you suffer that same kind of pain.”

“Oh, William…” Her hand came up to stroke his cheek, and she smiled. It had an unbearable sadness to it. “We aren’t the ones to decide such fates…”

William frowned, confused. _Of course_ he was one to decide. That’s why he’d accepted his position in the Council’s accounting division. Safe in his tiny office, he could provide for his mother and ensure his companionship well into her old age.

His mother’s hand dropped to his neck.

A silent, yet insistent, question.

William took a deep breath, remembering all too late he couldn’t do that, and winced. The pain that echoed itself on his mother’s face could’ve broken him all over again. As it was, he found himself looking at the floor before he could talk:

“There was a girl,” he started.

Slowly he began to tell his mother everything of the past week—the overheard conversation in the halls, the brisk summary Travers had recited to him, and then his own misguided efforts, day after day after useless day…

“And it’s all been for nothing!” William spat, finishing. “Miss Summers _refuses_ to see the reality of her situation! How am I supposed to help her when she proceeds to only grow more… more…” The echo of Travers’ voice rose within him. “Feral.”

His mother pressed her lips together.

“ _Were_ you helping her?” she finally asked.

William stared at her. “Of course I was! The others were ready to let her die!”

“Like you are ready to now.”

“What? No!” William protested. “That’s different! I tried to give her a chance! She’s forced my hand. _All_ of our hands.” He was sounding more and more like them now. He knew that. But his mouth seemed to be stuck on a runaway train, gaining steam, and his mother wasn’t helping. Shejust sat beside him. Staring. “What am I supposed to do?” William begged her. “The girl will not budge. She has one demand—to be returned her to family—and it is the _one_ thing I cannot do.”

“Why not?” his mother asked, blinking in seeming confusion. “Have the steam ships stopped their passage?”

“No, of course not. But—”

“Has America finally shuttered its gates on the Commonwealth for good?”

“No, even _they_ wouldn’t be foolish enough to—” He paused before he fell further into his mother’s stubborn ploy. His jaw set itself. “I cannot help her. The Council has forbidden it.”

“I see.” She clasped her hands lightly in her lap. “So, you’re agreed with them. It’s better to let Miss Summers die.”

“No! I’m _not_ agreed! But I can’t just—” His throat closed. His mother looked on at him in silence. The same kind of silence that Elizabeth had haunted him with all week. “You’re acting as though I can simply whisk the girl out of Griverston and send her off with a ticket to the colonies with nary a shout or protest. They’ll never let that happen. They’ll _kill_ her.”

“Hmm…” The weight of the world was carried in that one sound. “Well, it seems to me like they’ve already scheduled to do that.”

William fell silent.

Her mother reached out and gently touched his neck again, lace sleeves brushing his skin. “I’ll have Martha fetch some ointment,” she finally said. “See if we can get this a little less purple by morning.” She stood and made her way to the door before pausing. Her hand lingered on its frame. “You have a good heart, my William. And whatever your decision is… I trust it will be the right thing.”

And then she was gone, leaving him with nothing but a ring of bruises and his own ragged thoughts. 


	3. Act I - Chapter III

William had never much considered himself one for heroics. On the contrary, he liked rules. He liked following them. He liked the way they gave life a certain order and predictability. And while he admitted that predictability did, at times, cause life to venture into the realm of tedium, it also removed a bloody terrifying bite from it in the process.

So, given all of that, William was frankly quite lost as to how he’d ended trapped in a dark broom closet, trying to breathe his way out of a panic attack.

Oh, he knew the history of events. There’d been the plan in his head for starters. It’d been straightforward, if not quite simple: pack a leather bag of essentials, walk into Griverston Hall as if nothing was out of the ordinary, steal a ring of keys from the custodial staff, descend into the cellars, and then, ultimately, swan off with the young Miss Summers in tow.

Somewhat surprisingly, William had actually managed the first half of that plan with ease. Lord Travers’ office was protected with scores of protective charms; the custodian’s quarters, not so much. However, as for the latter half…

He’d made it as far as the cellar staircase when he’d heard an echo of voices and felt his feet turning around without him.

And now he was here, his companions an assortment of pails and mops. Perhaps he could take one and wear it on his head. Surely that wouldn’t be any more ludicrous than anything else he’d endeavored to do this evening.

William closed his eyes and gripped his satchel for security, the leather cool beneath his fingers. He had two choices—return home, abandoning Miss Summers to her fate… or press forward.

It wasn’t much of a choice.

Placing his hand on the closet’s door latch, William began to whisper a low count of twenty seconds. He breathed in and out and in again, listening in silence until he was absolutely sure there was no one on the other side, and then ventured out once more.

The stairs to the cellars were on his left, exactly where he’d left them. A wide mahogany bannister led the way down into murky shadows.

As William started to descend, he rehearsed his emergency story should anyone encounter him. He’d returned to Griverston Hall to give Miss Summers one last chance. Nothing suspicious about that. Nothing at all. Why wasn’t he with an official escort? Oh, right. Silly of him. In his excitement he’d forgotten. Yes. Of course they could head back upstairs together.

Nothing suspicious at all.

William rubbed his neck. From its persistent ache, he knew the bruises from Miss Summer’s chains were still there. He’d concealed them with a high collar, but the edges had still peeked out. If anyone came close enough, they’d undoubtedly start to ask questions as well. If not inside the halls of Griverston, then surely once he’d made it outside…

No.

It wouldn’t do him any good to stew over the thousand ways things _could_ go wrong in some future he hadn’t even got to yet. He had to keep moving. One shaky step at a time.

Polished wood gave way to rough stone as he officially entered the cellars. The doors on either side of the long, main hall weren’t marked, but after a week of visits he had Miss Summers’ room memorized. The gas lamps flickered as he pulled out the custodian’s key ring and tried it, key by key, against the lock.

Sweat beaded down his forehead, beaded down his wrist. The metal occasionally slipped from his grip. Once, he almost dropped the ring entirely. William caught it, the jangling sound echoing down the length of the whole hall. He paused, listening for any sort of change in the distance, and then forced himself to keep going.

If anyone stumbled across him now, this situation would be much harder to explain.

By the time the first twenty keys had proven themselves useless lumps of metal, anxiety had fully seized his gut. It twisted and twisted further, making it hard to concentrate. William was already a third of the way through the ring. A dreadful thought suddenly arose—what if the custodians only had access to the upper rooms? What if he had to go back and—?

The lock clicked.

William’s breath caught with it. Holding the key with one hand, he pushed with his other, and the door swung gently open.

Inside was the room as he’d left it. Elizabeth Summers was still on her bed, awake and staring at him as if their last confrontation had happened only minutes instead of hours ago. The other Watchers had tightened her chains though, giving her barely enough room to navigate the sides of the bed, and her eyes had red circles beneath them.

She’d been crying.

William coughed. “Miss Summers, I—”

“Go away,” she snapped, looking askance. “I don’t want see you _or_ your stupid looking face.”

William’s face went red. He open his mouth in an attempt to talk her down, to explain to her why she should, in fact, be glad to see him and his stupid— _not_ stupid looking face, when he stopped himself. It didn’t matter whether the girl liked him. They just needed to make it out of Griverston and across the city to Canary Wharf by nine o’clock.

He held up his ring of keys.

That caught her attention.

“I- I’m escorting you back to America,” he said. “That is, if you still wish to go.”

Elizabeth stared at him. Her throat swallowed, and he could practically see her mind move with it, but she remained quiet.

He’d have to take that as a ‘yes.’

Dropping his leather bag, William approached the side of her bed. As he lifted the broad key that’d unlocked her door to the slim hole of her manacles, his stomach sank. It was obvious it wasn’t going to fit. Still…

He might as well try.

But as he got close, Elizabeth shifted, jerking her manacle away. Her eyes were wide and piercing. “Why?” she asked. “How do I know I can trust you?”

William took a deep breath. “I’m afraid you can’t,” he said, wishing he had something better to tell her. “Unfortunately, I- I’m afraid your options are me… or no one.”

Elizabeth continued to stare at him. For a moment, he thought she might yank away from him further, perhaps even scream, but at last she gave a silent nod and let her wrist go limp.

William didn’t waste any time.

He was ultimately right; the key that unlocked Elizabeth’s manacles was _not_ the one that’d unlocked her door, but blessedly it ended up on the same key ring all the same. Once he’d unlocked both of her wrists, he stepped back to give her some space. Elizabeth watched him warily as she raised each of her them in front of her, gently rubbing the red, chaffed skin.

William returned to his satchel. Hoisting it up, he began depositing a set of his childhood clothes onto the bedspread. “Change into these,” he said. “The men here are quick to monitor the comings and goings of young girls. Not so much those of young boys. If anyone stops us, you’re to be my nephew.”

“I… see…” Elizabeth said, doubt showing in fine crinkles around her mouth.

She stared at the clothes, then up at William. He tried hard not to fidget, tried to wait for her to move, then waited some more, but despite the need for haste, she remained seated against the headboard.

“Perhaps,” she finally said. “You should go watch the hallway…?”

William blinked in confusion. A sentry post was an idea to be lauded for sure, but the fact that she was concerned about that instead of simply changing—

Oh.

William reddened. “Yes,” he quickly said. “Yes, indeed.”

He turned, adopting guard at the entrance to the room and granting the girl her privacy.

Outside, the corridor was one long and unbending line, and he tried not to let his head poke out too far. If anyone saw him, they’d be able to simply turn around and run straight upstairs, alerting the whole building…

“Ready,” Elizabeth said.

He turned back. Elizabeth had finished putting on his old clothes. The fit was decent enough, although they hung rather limp on her small frame, and the plain whites and browns only further lent themselves towards an overall mouse-like impression. Still, he supposed mouse-like was good. Perhaps it’d help her fade against the browns of the upstairs panelings.

Elizabeth fingered an old flat cap that he’d included, turning it over in her hands.

“That’s to put your hair under,” William told her.

She looked up. “I’m not _stupid_.”

“Of c-course not. I simply—”

But Elizabeth was already rolling her eyes as she gathered up her matted ends, and he felt it best to drop the matter. William went to retrieve the blue dress that she’d left crumpled on the floor.

Elizabeth started. “What are you doing?”

“Taking your dress,” he said, feeling a bit foolish from the obviousness of the answer.

“Don’t,” she commanded. “I hate that thing. Leave it here. Or better yet…” She snatched it from him. “Burn it.” She headed for the gas lamps.

“Elizabeth, no!” William instinctively grabbed her arm. His larger frame yanked her back with ease, and she flinched as if slapped. William hurriedly let go. “I-I’m sorry. It’s just… we’ll need it on the ship. For immigration.”

Elizabeth stared at him. “Immigration?”

“Yes. In New York. I won’t be able to pass you off as a young boy to the officials there, so we’ll need that dress.”

She continued to stare at him.

“The ship will have laundry facilities. I’ll ensure it’s properly cleaned before you’re forced the wear it again.”

Elizabeth’s grip tightened. Her eyes slipped slowly back to the gas lamp…

“Fine,” she finally muttered. Her fingers released their hold on the fabric, and she let William pack the stained garment into his satchel.

To be entirely honest, he wasn’t sure how the ship’s laundry would work. While he’d spoken true about the existence of the facilities, he’d never had to use one before. He’d most likely have to pay someone to wash the dress for him, and he didn’t know if its tattered quality would arouse suspicions… Perhaps he could say Elizabeth had tripped and fallen into a puddle. Or similar.

It was yet another problem for his future self.

Once both Elizabeth’s dress and her hair had been tucked out of sight, William motioned for her to follow him. Thankfully, the cellar’s main corridor was still empty. They began to make their way towards the stairs.

Elizabeth managed to keep quiet until halfway up.

“So,” she said, eyes wide as she looked up the staircase’s length, the world above increasingly brighter and brighter. “We’re to just walk out?”

Somehow his plan seemed even _more_ ludicrous when she voiced it.

“Yes,” William reluctantly said.

“Won’t anybody notice?”

William took a slow breath. The tight knot in his stomach was getting harder to ignore. “A third of the staff has gone home for the day,” he recited from memory. “Another third is in the training rooms with the other Potentials.”

“And the other third?” Elizabeth asked.

William clutched his satchel tighter. He glanced silently at the girl—her face looked as pale as his felt—and then kept moving.

Finally, they emerged onto the ground floor. Five hallways lay between them and the servant’s entrance. Five hallways between them and freedom. With a quick prayer, William began to stride confidently—or, at least, what he _hoped_ looked like confidently—in the direction of his memorized path. It took all his strength not to reach back and offer Elizabeth a protective hand. After all, she was supposed to be his nephew, and nephews did not clutch their uncles’ hands.

All too slowly, with nerve-wracking turn after turn, the wide, door-filled hallways counted themselves down. William remained hyper-vigilant to the slightest movement, the faintest noise. Behind several closed doors were murmurs of conversations. He tried to listen past their words and the steady thrum of consonants and vowels for shuffles of movement instead. He listened for sudden goodbyes or approaching footsteps…

But everything remained constant.

And then:

“Did you hear about old Russell?”

“No.” A cold chuckle echoed from up ahead. “He killing more bog-trotters again?”

Two Watchers. The next intersection.

“Alas, no. Seems the old man’s passed himself.”

The voices were getting closer.

“Mr. Pratt?” Elizabeth whispered behind him.

Damn.

Their current hallway was straight and open. There were no columns to hide behind or alcoves to press into. Elizabeth’s disguise—passable, he’d thought in the safety of the cellars—seemed laughable now. He’d been a fool to think it’d get them past even a single Watcher. His heart beat faster and faster, making it hard to think.

They were going to be caught for sure. They were going to—

Elizabeth grabbed William’s hand and yanked him backwards down the corridor. His feet nearly tripped over themselves, but he caught himself and kept going. Just in time, they whipped around the previous corner and hid themselves from view. Elizabeth slowed, but didn’t stop or let go of his hand either.

“Elizabeth, stop!” William whispered.

“Why? So you can freeze again?”

“That’s—”

“I’m _not_ going back to that dungeon,” she said, her voice soft but resolute.

“You won’t,” he insisted as they approached another intersection. This time it seemed vacant. “But you can’t simply take blind turns without regard for— Oh!”

“Oh!” echoed another girl.

They’d run into her at the turn. Her plain white blouse and pants—a Potential’s training uniform—lay stark against her dark skin, and her hair was pinned back into tightly coiled braid. Her hand hovered over her mouth as she blankly stared at them.

William and Elizabeth stared back.

They’d been caught.

“Rani?” a man’s gruff voice called out. It came from a half-opened door up ahead. “What is it?”

William’s heart thudded painfully against his chest. The other girl had seen past Elizabeth’s disguise. It was obvious. And one shout was all it’d take to bring the whole bloody Council down upon them. He tightened his hands around Elizabeth’s, pulling her close…

“Nothing, Mr. Cromwell!” Rani shouted, her eyes not leaving the two. “It’s… It’s just a spider!”

“A spider?” The gruff voice devolved into chuckles. “I swear, next in line to vanquish the evilest of evils and all you girls are just as silly as ever. Just kill the creature and be done with it!”

Rani swallowed. “I— I will!” She remained still, but gave a jerky nod.

A signal to run.

They did.

With William in the lead again, they re-approached the intersection where they’d heard the voices. Empty this time. William held his breath as they turned left as he’d originally intended, then right after that. He still was holding Elizabeth’s hand, he realized. He knew he should’ve let go, but couldn’t.

At last, they entered the servants’ wing. From a side staircase rose the echoed clang of pots and other utensils—remnants of the supper for the Potentials and assigned Watchers in residence. They passed a handful of cleaning staff and delivery men as they drew closer to the exit. The staffs’ heads bowed low towards one another, whispering, as the two continued resolutely forward. No doubt the servants would talk, would spread word of the unusual passage… but they didn’t shout, and they didn’t step forward to stop William, and that was all he could really ask for at the present moment.

Then, with a final push through the service door, he and Elizabeth were outside in the shaded mews behind the hall.

He’d done it.

William paused to catch his breath. His chest pounded, the whole world rather light and dizzy and—

“Don’t become an old man on me now!” Elizabeth hissed, and grabbed his arm to tug him further from the building.

Right.

They weren’t safe. If anything, now began the true danger.

William turned, looking up at the back of Griverston Hall. It loomed over them, five stories of brick and centuries of history mooring it into place. Hundreds of windows dotted its length in an even grid, hundred of eyes into a world he was officially turning away from. Hundreds of eyes that could be peering out even now as he—

“Mr. Pratt!”

Shaking himself back to the present, William pressed on.

* * *

Elizabeth fidgeted more and more until she was fully kneeling up on her seat as she peered through the window of the cab that William had flagged down.

“Don’t,” he finally said, reaching over her to pull the curtain shut. Elizabeth glared at him, obviously wounded, and William sighed. “We don’t know who might be watching,” he explained. “The second the Council discovers you’re gone…”

Elizabeth continued to look rather miffed, but thankfully settled back into a proper ladylike position. Unfortunately, the rest of her failed to match. She still looked like a street urchin in his old clothes. Worse, she’d taken her hat off, so now her matted hair rested in dirty clumps around her neck.

Something in William itched to brush it clean.

Opening his satchel, he searched past the crumpled blue dress to its bottom, feeling around in vain for a hairbrush. He didn’t remember packing one, but with any possible luck—

“How long is it going to take?” Elizabeth asked.

“Hmm?”

“To get to America.”

William paused in his search and glanced at the ceiling of the cab, trying to recall the timetable of the ship that he’d hastily booked before heading to Griverston. “Seven days,” he said. “Including the stop in Southhampton.”

“Seven days,” Elizabeth repeated. “And all you have is that?” She stared at his satchel with a look of mild disgust. “For both of us?”

“I admit the plan was hasty,” he said, closing the bag with a tight snap. “But they were planning on killing you.”

Elizabeth looked petulantly aside. “I know that already.”

“Tomorrow.”

She went rigid.

“Oh,” she finally whispered, the sound nearly inaudible beneath the clatter of the carriage wheels on the cobbles.

For all of Elizabeth’s recklessness and bravery, it hadn’t really hit her, William suddenly realized, how close she’d been to death. She was still from a world where the lives of little girls _weren’t_ weighed against the greater good of the world.

If one could even call it good.

William cleared his throat. “I’ve gathered enough to funds to get us to California,” he said. “Our accommodations won’t be elegant, but neither should we suffer from destitution.”

Elizabeth nodded solemnly but didn’t say anything.

They rode in silence for some time after that. Elizabeth gradually returned to the window, this time drawing the curtain back with just a single finger, and peered cautiously through the narrow gap.

“I’m sorry you didn’t get to see it,” William found himself saying.

Elizabeth turned and stared at him.

“London,” he explained. “It truly is a beautiful city. One could say the capital of modern civilization itself.”

She snorted.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just…” Her face gained a haunted look to it. “You say you’re not like them, but… you _are_.”

William swallowed, trying to think of some retort to that, but nothing came. Instead, he busied himself with prepping the documents for their upcoming travel. He finished not a moment too soon as the carriage pulled to a halt.

After checking that Elizabeth’s hair was safely beneath her cap again, William led her outside onto the docks. The sky was a dark grey now, the sun having dipped fully below the horizon. Fog settled in around them like an opium den, blurring the edges of the nearby ships and the burly men who busied themselves loading and unloading cargo. The reduced visibility was a double-edged sword: it hid any potential attackers from view—William did his best _not_ to imagine a horde of Councilmen just out of sight—but it also reduced the number of eyes on them. There’d be less mouths to spread stories the next day.

“Follow me,” William commanded.

Keeping Elizabeth firmly in front of him, he escorted her up the boarding ramp of a mid-sized steamer. As their next destination was still within England, there was no checking of paperwork; just a flash of tickets and they were aboard. Not that William expected New York to be significantly more difficult—children of Elizabeth’s age didn’t require passports and William’s passport had several unfilled lines in the family section.

More than several, really…

“Second class,” he told Elizabeth, pushing that thought aside. “This way.”

They navigated the cramped, dark hallways, not stopping until the door of their interior cabin was locked behind them. William promptly collapsed on the small chaise lounge and breathed a sigh of relief. He took out a handkerchief and dabbed at the perspiration that’d gathered on his forehead.

Opposite the chaise lounge was a narrow bunk bed. Elizabeth took a cautious seat on its bottom half, springs squeaking softly beneath her gentle weight. Her hands fidgeted in her lap as she surveyed the room. It wasn’t much to look at—just the lounge, bed, and a small washbasin with attached cupboard—but it was clean.

“There’s no window,” Elizabeth said.

“Yes,” William admitted, scratching his neck. “I’m afraid with the last minute reservations, the ship’s interior rooms were the only which remained.”

“Mmm,” she said, giving a terse nod. But even as she seemed to accept their reality for the next twenty-four hours, her posture stiffened and her lower lip began to tremble.

She looked on the verge of tears.

“Miss Summers…” William started. “No. Elizabeth.” He quickly rose from his seat and kneeled before her. “We _will_ make it through this. You _will_ see your mother again. I promise you that.”

Elizabeth looked at him, her eyes wide and watery. “You do?”

William smiled wryly. Technically, he’d already promised her that, but he saw no harm in an occasional re-avowal. He opened his mouth to repeat himself from earlier, and then stopped.

What was it the children said these days…?

He lifted a hand and made the remembered motion over the left half of his chest: “Cross my heart and hope to die.” 


	4. Act I - Chapter IV

William woke up to pure darkness and the world pitching back and forth. It took him a terrifyingly long moment before he remembered that he was on a boat, sailing off to the new world with Elizabeth Summers, and, oh God, he was seized with terror all over again, because what had he _done_?

He couldn’t ever return to London now, that much he knew. The second he set foot onto its cobble-paved streets, the Council would have him thrown into a dungeon cell darker than his current cabin.

After another minute of silent anxiety and self-pity failed to resolve matters in the slightest, he rubbed his eyes to force himself awake. There still weren’t any windows in the small cabin, but since he didn’t feel _too_ tired, he guessed it must’ve been close to morning. Fumbling for the knob of the gas lamp that he knew was beside his lower bunk, he turned it until dim light was cast across the room, then used that to locate his pocket watch…

Which had stopped ticking.

Again.

William sighed.

He pushed himself out the narrow bed and quickly dressed. His bag hadn’t the space to pack a separate pair of nightclothes, so he’d worn his undershirt to sleep. Because of that, it was now a bit more rumpled than he would’ve preferred, but that was better than risking Miss Summers’ modesty, damaged as it already was given the circumstances.

“Miss Summers,” he said after he’d finished the last button of his waistcoat and slipped his spectacles on. “I do apologize if you’re still asleep, but I was to venture outside to check the time.”

He waited.

No response.

Yesterday _had_ been a trying evening. Perhaps the exhaustion had gotten to her.

“Miss Summers?” he repeated a bit louder. He approached the pile of blankets on the top bunk, hoping to gently wake her…

And found only blankets.

“Miss Summers!”

His hands searched the pile, bunched up the cloth, and threw it to the floor, but it was no use. The bed was empty. As was the rest of their abysmally small cabin.

William turned, and turned again, trying to think.

Had the Council found them already? Had they taken Elizabeth away? No… If that were the case, then why would they have left William asleep? Elizabeth had to be here on the ship still.

Somewhere.

He stumbled out of their cabin, shoes half-laced. Following an iron railing down the main corridor and up the short flight of stairs at its end, William stepped out onto the passenger-reserved deck. The first thin rays of the sun greeted him, weak and grey. By the looks of it, the ship had made it into the English Channel, with a faint coastline that peeked through the mist on his right and absolutely nothing but sea on his left. And ahead, up towards the bow, was…

“Elizabeth!” William shouted, then immediately flinched. If there was a secret Councilman aboard who hadn’t known of their presence yet, then they would now.

The girl turned. She was still wearing his boyhood clothes—the fabric looking even more rumpled than his undershirt had—but she’d abandoned the hat again. Her tangles swept this way and that in the wind, seeming more like Medusa’s snakes than human hair.

She didn’t move or speak as William rushed to her side.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. “Did something happened?”

Elizabeth swallowed, then looked away. “I couldn’t sleep,” she said, seemingly more to the water than to him.

“What? That’s not a good reason to—!” He cleared his throat. Tried again. Calmer. “We must keep ourselves hidden from the Council. If anyone sees you...”

“There’s no one here,” Elizabeth muttered, her lip jutting out defensively.

William reluctantly glanced around the deck. She was right, but… “That’s not the point.”

“Besides. Why did you even rescue me if it means having to stay in that stupid room?”

William frowned. He was about to explain just how different their ‘stupid’ room was from the cell that the Council had imprisoned her in, how she was simplifying matters far too much, how the world wasn’t as black and white as she seemed to think it ought to be… and then he sighed. “It’s just for the time being. The further we get from the Council, the safer we’ll be. But for now… while we’re this close to London…”

Elizabeth slumped like a cab horse forced to go another shift without rest. She was silent for a long while, then: “Why are you helping me then? If it’s so dangerous?”

William blinked.

“Because,” he said simply. He paused as he took her in, completely helpless, the picture of fragility itself; his now-ragged castoffs only served to heighten the general look of a woebegone Oliver or Cosette. “It was the right thing to do.”

Elizabeth frowned at him as though she was about to argue, but then a distant chatter caught both their attentions—someone was approaching the deck. She gripped the tangled ends of her hair as if only now aware of how suspicious she looked.

“I’ll go back to the cabin,” she said before William could repeat his warning. “But if this is some kind of trick… if you’re just trying to trick me into doing something like they were…” Her mouth thinned, and her green eyes, harder than any girl’s had a right to be, narrowed. “I will end you.”

She retreated back towards their cabin, hands still twisted around her matted ends.

As William watched her go, a sudden dread seized him. He’d vowed to escort a young girl back home, had vowed to escort her halfway around the known world, and beyond the surface details, beyond the facts and figures compiled in the Council’s report… he didn’t know a single thing about her.

* * *

“Elizabeth?”

Buffy’s nose was stuck deep in the penny dreadful she’d bought from one of the steamship’s merchants the other day. The book was called Black Bess and it’d had a fearsome horse rider on its cover. Buffy had handed over her money, hoping it was about a female outlaw, but it’d quickly become apparent that only the horse’s name was Bess—mildly disappointing, but something she could still get behind. It’d be fun to be an outlaw’s horse, running around the countryside with no one fast enough to catch her, and—

“Elizabeth,” the voice repeated.

There was a touch on her shoulder and she jolted, looking up.

“Mr. Pratt,” she said.

Her temporary guardian was standing over her and the wooden bench she’d temporarily made her own, frowning down through his round spectacles. On either side of her, passengers strolled the length of the second-class promenade, stretching their legs in a respite from the windowless cabins that were undoubtedly mirrors of her own. None of them paid the two much attention. Mr. Pratt had laundered her old blue dress, as promised, and Buffy had put it on, as promised, and together they looked as ordinary as passenger as two could be—Buffy and Mr. Pratt.

Or rather, Elizabeth and Mr. Pratt.

Buffy’s mouth twisted. She still hadn’t gotten used to him calling him by her stuffy birth name, not that she was about to bother correcting him anytime soon. She’d use his help to get home, but that was it. As much as the man seemingly wanted to be her friend—or savior—he was still a part of the evil group that kidnapped her in the first place.

Mr. Pratt looked from her to her book, and his eyes narrowed. “What is that?”

“A book,” she replied, intentionally obvious. “You gave me the money for one, remember?”

“Yes, but…” He was getting all stuffy again, as if life was just one big rulebook he was absolutely terrified of straying from. “The vendor didn’t have anything a little more… appropriate?”

Of course.

It was wrong for young ladies to read about blood and violence and forest robber-men. It’d hurt their pretty little heads. Or something. Meanwhile, he seemed to be perfectly fine working for an organization that wanted to turn her into a pretty little warrior.

“Appropriate how?” she decided to ask, blinking in mock confusion.

He stammered for a moment before he was cut off by the deafening blare of the ship’s horn.

Buffy snapped her book shut. “What was that?” she demanded, jumping to her feet, ready to run.

Mr. Pratt smiled. “That,” he said, “is land ahoy.”

Buffy stared at him, his simple words slowly penetrating. “You mean…?”

At his silent nod, she pushed past him and hurried in the direction of the bow, the same direction that everyone else suddenly seemed to be heading. Seven days. Seven days they’d all been cooped up on this ship. The railing at the front was already packed by the time she reached it, and she had to not-so-politely push her way through several rows of people. She was greeted by the white paint of the steel guard wall which rose several inches above her short head.

She frowned at it, then stood on her tiptoes, trying in vain to stretch up and _see_...

“Need some assistance?”

Buffy turned—her bespectacled shadow had followed. She wanted to tell him to get lost, but reluctantly she nodded. Facing the edge again, she waited as he fumbled for a moment behind her, and then she was lifted up from under her arms and she scrambled to brace herself on the railing.

The April wind was chilly as it came straight off the sea and plucked at her hair and face. Ahead was miles and miles of ocean still, but a faint strip of land marked itself on the horizon. Buffy squinted. It didn’t look much different from the green shores they’d left nearly a week ago.

“Is that supposed to be New York?” she finally said. “I don’t see the buildings…”

“I think that’s Long Island.”

Buffy twisted to stare at Mr. Pratt in confusion—as if _that_ was supposed to help.

“New York City is close,” he explained. “Come. We should pack.”

Buffy didn’t want to pack. She wanted to stay up here on the railing until she saw the buildings. Until she knew for sure that they’d taken another step closer to home. Unfortunately, packing _was_ the logical thing to do, and it would get them off the boat faster… so, with a glare, she wiggled out of his grasp and back through the crowd.

Luckily, she and Mr. Pratt hadn’t much to keep track of. She hadn’t any possessions when she’d boarded the Atlantic steamer, and she hadn’t gained much during its week-long voyage, save for the penny dreadful, a couple of hair ribbons and a maple-handled brush. What she _really_ wanted was a new dress, so she could finally tear off the blue one she was still forced to wear and burn it like she’d vowed… but, as Mr. Pratt had kept reminding her, they were on a ship, not a fully leased Main Street. The few unofficial peddlers aboard kept their wares to small trinkets. Mr. Pratt had managed to find a used Gladstone bag though. It was scuffed and a little dingy looking, but it was three times the size of his satchel, which was all that mattered. Together, they tossed their few possessions into it, took one last search around the cabin for anything they might’ve forgotten, and then, with that done and both hands around the Gladstone, Mr. Pratt ushered Buffy into the corridor.

The two joined the rest of the second-class crowd as they filed out of the ship, shuffling along at an agonizingly slow pace. It was impossible to see ahead, jam-packed as it was, and the wall to Buffy’s left had only the occasional porthole set high up out of view.

Her heart began to beat faster and then faster still. Home. She was taking one step closer to home.

She tried to imagine her mother. The smells of the hotel kitchen, gleaming white in bleach-scrubbed tile. Freshly baked biscuits smothered with honey. A vase of mariposa lilies that she’d gathered in the—

Someone bumped into her.

Buffy stumbled. The crowd immediately pincered in, and she was cut off, surrounded by a sea of strangers.

Panic jolted through her. “Mr. Pratt—”

And then he was back at her side.

“Forgive me,” he said. With a tight swallow, he shifted the Gladstone to just a single hand and extended his free one.

Buffy gripped it and they kept moving.

At last they emerged out of the ship and into the daylight. The sky was half-blocked by clouds but still brighter than any gas lamp in the ship. Buffy was forced to squint as the flow of the crowd herded them down the gangplank and across the dock towards a brick building. Beside them was a parallel line of people moving at a much slower pace, their clothes a vast mixture of browns and other drab hues, punctuated only by the occasional vibrant hair scarf. Buffy recognized them. The third-class passengers. Immigrants. They had them in California—from China mostly, since hardly anyone from Europe would bother sailing all the way around the southern tip of the Americas when one could cross the country directly by train. Her mother had told Buffy about them… and about the ones who came their thousands of miles to only get turned back at the port, somehow not good enough to stay for good…

One of the older women from the third-class line turned her head and locked eyes with Buffy, who quickly stopped staring and looked back ahead with a blush.

Only herself. Buffy had to focus on only herself.

The brick building at the end of the outside line was like a warehouse inside, big and roomless and open. Lines of people criss-crossed the floor. She and Mr. Pratt bypassed most of them, along with the rest of the second-class line, and soon they were standing before one of the dozens of desks and desks that blocked the exit.

Mr. Pratt clasped Buffy’s shoulders tightly as a middle-aged worker reviewed his passport. “William Pratt,” he told the man, rather obviously, as Buffy assumed that information was already written down on the paper that the worker was looking at. “And my daughter, Elizabeth.”

It was the story they’d decided upon.

Well.

It was the story that Mr. Pratt had decided upon and Buffy had decided she’d play along with. At twenty-seven years old, Mr. Pratt wasn’t old enough to be her father, and he was still barely old enough to be even _after_ he’d forged her age as being two years younger than it was. It was risky, but they hadn’t much choice. Passing her off as either a niece or ward would’ve required extra papers, which would’ve come with their own suspicions.

As the worker eyed them with an uplifted brow, Mr. Pratt’s grip tightened. Buffy resisted the instinct to wince.

A polite smile.

Her one job in all of this was to give the man a polite smile.

Which she did.

Finally, the worker sighed, handed back the passport, and waved them along with an impassioned, “Enjoy your stay.”

And it was done.

She was back in America.

Outside the disembarkation building lay a wide boulevard lined with carriages and people waiting to board. Trunks and bags cluttered the pavement. Mr. Pratt navigated her through the mess, following a conjunction of signs and oral directions toward the nearby Exchange Place railroad station. Buffy half-paid attention to that and spent the rest of her focus staring around at her surroundings. Their ship had tied off in New Jersey, not New York as she’d been originally led to believe. Though she supposed that was okay. It was still America. Everyone kept saying it was America. So she should’ve been happy about that. And she was.

But…

The city didn’t look right. If anything, it looked more like London than any American city she’d ever seen. Ladies passed by in tight buttoned-down dresses and parasols. Buildings lay crammed together on either side of the street, lurking over the pavement in brown-brick shells, nothing like the open white and blue wooden frames of home.

“Familiar?” Mr. Pratt asked, nearly startling her.

She frowned. “No,” she said truthfully.

“I see… Did you pass through a different port on the way to England?”

“Maybe. I wouldn’t know.”

“Wouldn’t know? Do you not remember?”

Buffy’s frown deepened. “Your friends kidnapped me in the middle of the night and put me in a shipping container,” she said. “It didn’t have much of a view.”

That shut him up.

They passed another dull brown street in silence. Buffy glared at the pavement, glared at strangers in the distance, daring one of them to be a secret Councilman, and then—

Pink.

A bright sparkle caught her eye.

Buffy stopped.

Turned.

The prettiest fabric she’d ever seen was laid out on display in the window beside her. Bolts of it. And ribbons and lace and all sorts of beautiful things that practically shone with inner perfection. She stepped closer, hand pressing against the glass.

A few weeks before she’d been taken, Buffy’s mother had told her that business at their hotel was going good. That she’d make Buffy a new dress in time for Easter. And Buffy had dreamed of wearing it, of twirling around, especially in front of Cordelia, the bank manager’s daughter. Her life had been so simple. So _easy_ …

“Elizabeth!”

A hand grabbed her own, and suddenly she was face-to-face with Mr. Pratt’s harried eyes.

“Come,” he lectured. “We mustn’t dawdle.”

Reluctantly, she left the display window behind, though she occasionally glanced back over her shoulder. The pink fabric shrunk, smaller and smaller, until it was just a pink dot.

And then it was gone completely.

* * *

The railroad station itself was a busy hub of steel and glass and coal smoke. People hurried this way and that between its various platforms and exits and ferry entrances. Buffy kept herself tucked close to Mr. Pratt as he checked the posted timetables with a frown.

“Sixteen hundred…” he muttered before glancing at his pocket watch that seemed to be broken half the time. “Three hours to wait.”

He said it as though their whole trip thus far hadn’t been a series of waits.

With a sigh, Mr. Pratt guided the two of them over to a waiting bench. Once seated, Buffy opened the top of their travel bag and began rummaging around in it for her book. She found it and was about to start reading when she noticed Mr. Pratt’s expression, frowning and on edge as his eyes darted around the crowded station.

“Mr. Pratt?” she asked.

He jerked, startled, then cleared his throat. “It’s nothing. Read your book.”

Buffy glared at him. She was young, but she wasn’t a _child_. She straightened, book forgotten. “What’s wrong?”

“I said, it’s nothing.” But his eyes kept searching the station.

“You’re still worried about the Council,” Buffy said in realization. “Aren’t you.”

“That’s... I’m sure it’s perfectly fine.”

“It’s not fine. You’re twitching like a jackalope.”

Mr. Pratt stared at her in what looked like disappointment. “Don’t be absurd. There’s no such creature.”

“What? Like there aren’t demons? Or vampires?”

“Shh!” he said, rounding on her and glancing at the nearby people in fear.

Buffy narrowly resisted the urge to roll her eyes. If any of them were to be staring at anything, they’d be staring at Mr. Pratt’s weird behavior and nothing from her.

She sighed.

It looked like it was up to her to be the adult again, as she’d already had a couple times during their journey when Mr. Pratt’s nerves had failed him. “It’s not safe to sit and wait here,” Buffy concluded. “So, we’ll go somewhere else.” She scrunched her nose in thought until a memory sparked. A particularly recent, pink-tinged spark. She sat up straighter. “We’ll explore the city.”

“I… I’m not entirely sure an exploration of unknown places will be any safer than…”

Buffy clasped her hands before her, jutting her lower lip out in what she hoped was an irresistible pout. She quibbled it slightly.

Mr. Pratt sighed. “We’ll explore the city.” 


	5. Act I - Chapter V

The harsh clatter of the train tracks seared itself into William’s head, echoing on and on in an eternal imprint. It joined forces with his insomnia from the night before—a result of the now occasional stop where _anyone_ could theoretically hop aboard their train—and blocked all other thought as he struggled to focus on the printed words in his book.

“Hey,” Elizabeth said.

William tried to ignore her.

He failed.

“What?”

She sat perched on the seat beside him, looking inquisitively up. “Can I have five cents?”

William sighed. “Why?”

Elizabeth shrugged, glancing sideways. “‘m hungry,” she mumbled.

“What was that?”

“I’m hungry.”

William frowned. “We just had lunch,” he said. “In fact… if my memory serves me, your exact words were, and I quote, ‘ _I’m stuffed_.’”

“Yeah…” Elizabeth said, using that obnoxious American degradation of the affirmative. “But that was only my big stomach.”

William blinked.

“Your ‘big’ stomach,” he repeated flatly.

“Yeah!” She brightened instantly. “I have two stomachs.”

William stared at her disturbed, his book now entirely forgotten. “Two stomachs?” he heard himself ask. While he’d heard Americans were different from his fellow countrymen, surely—

“Mmm hmm,” Elizabeth said, nodding. “There’s my big stomach, which is for things like vegetables and chicken. And then there’s my little stomach, for things like… umm… sugar. And chocolate.”

William deflated in a mixture of exhaustion and relief, mingled with mild irritation for believing that she had anything of substance to say in the first place. “You do not have two stomachs, Miss Summers.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you simply don’t!” he said. The girl was twelve. Far beyond such childish nonsense. “And for you to invent such a falsehood, just to beg a—”

“I didn’t invent it,” she protested.

William stared at her flatly. “Oh?”

“My mom did. She says everyone has two stomachs.”

William opened his mouth, then closed it again. He wasn’t entirely sure what to do with that information, so he stayed quiet.

“So,” Elizabeth continued. “Can I have the pennies?”

“No.”

“But—”

“I said, _no_.”

Elizabeth grumbled a bit before flouncing off the tiny couch and settling back against adjacent berth. Their current roomette seemed a distant cousin of the cabin they’d shared on the ship, the main difference being the large window opposite the door, which Elizabeth looked out of now.

“My stomach doesn’t like you,” she muttered toward the glass.

“Bully for your stomach,” William muttered back.

It was his fault really. He’d spoiled the girl in New Jersey, stuffing their free hours with trips to various sweet shops and haberdasheries. He hadn’t the time to tailor her a proper new dress, but they had managed to stop by a secondhand shop. After Elizabeth had picked out two pre-worn gowns, William had tipped a little extra to have them altered within the hour. She was wearing the pink one today. The frills at its hem fluttered back and forth as she kicked her legs in apparent boredom. Occasionally, her eyes darted to the Gladstone stowed on the rack above William’s head.

“No,” William repeated before she got any ideas. “We’ve spent too much already. In fact, we really ought to start a budget if we want to make sure we’ll reach California.”

Elizabeth huffed her way into another series of grumbles, shooting glares at William when she thought he wasn’t looking.

William turned his eyes on his book and tried to ignore her.

Again.

He had at least another of week of this. Another week of monotonous travel broken only by petulant whining. Though… he supposed he should’ve been grateful the estimated time wasn’t longer. If Elizabeth had been taken by the Council a mere three years earlier, the majority of the American rail lines they were using wouldn’t have been open yet. William shuddered at the thought of having to traverse the wild, uncolonized plains and mountains via caravan. Even the current forests and farmland that whirred past their window seemed alien, as if he was on some kind of fantastic adventure novel with himself cast in the part of the modern-day Gulliver. Every part of his tired soul longed for the familiar streets of London.

Though, even as it did, one gut-retching question loomed ever-present in the back of his mind...

What came next?

After he deposited Miss Summers with her mother, William couldn’t return to London. Not if he didn’t want to be immediately seized and executed by the Council. The ghoulish certainty of that solidified more and more with every passing day.

But then what? Stay in the Americas? Flee to some other colony? Either way resign himself to a life of savagery?

He stewed on this, fretting away the minutes as he stared blankly at his book, until the clatter of the tracks began to slow.

The train began to slow.

William frowned. They’d boarded an express. He could’ve sworn they weren’t supposed to stop anywhere until at least four o’clock, and it was only—he pulled out his watch—a little past one.

He put aside his book and rummaged in his pockets for the timetable he’d copied.

Elizabeth soon abandoned the window and scooted close, peering over his shoulder. “What’re you doing?”

William silently unfolded the paper and traced down his hand-written list of stops. Sure enough, there it was—Pittsburgh, scheduled stop 11:15 a.m. Crestline, scheduled stop 4:30 p.m.

So, where were they now?

“Mr. Pratt?”

William ignored her and moved to the window. He peered out, searching for any sort of signage. He had to lift the glass pane and stick his whole head out, scanning the length of the platform, but there it was, mounted on the side of a red-brick building in bold letters—ALLIANCE, OH.

“What’s wrong?” Elizabeth asked. Her tone was flat. Wary.

William swallowed, trying to push down the jitters that’d crawled up his stomach with it. “We shouldn’t have stopped here,” he said. “It’s not on the schedule.” He held the paper out to her.

Elizabeth took it, reading as William began to pace the length of their tiny cabin. His heart pounded in double time with his steps. “Maybe someone got sick?” she finally ventured, sounding more wistful than convincing.

And William was not convinced.

He pressed his lips together, silently debating with himself until: “Stay here,” he commanded. “I’ll find the attendant. Ask him what’s going on.”

Elizabeth stared at him with blank eyes. She did not look particularly obedient.

“I mean it.”

She slowly nodded.

William excused himself from their room and began to travel the length of the car. He passed closed door after closed door. No one else seemed to have noticed the unscheduled stop. Or if they had, they didn’t seem to be bothered. At last he located the car attendant, sitting in a plain chair at the end of the car, reading his own slim paperback.

“Excuse me,” William said.

The man started, then glanced up. “Sorry,” he quickly said. “Was just… well—” He gestured with the book, then quickly placed it behind him. “Sorry. Again. Did you need something?”

“Y-yes,” William said. He coughed, unsure how to inconspicuously proceed. “The train. It’s stopped. Here. Do you know—”

“Oh, that. Yes. We’re extremely sorry. A bit of unexpected maintenance. Not entirely sure with what. If you want specifics, I’d have to find someone else… which I can do if you—”

“No, no,” William quickly assured him, shaky with near-overwhelming relief. “That’s quite alright, thank you.”

“Would you like a glass of water? Or some other drink? For your trouble?”

“No, that’s quite—” He caught himself before he repeated himself. “I’m good. Thank you.” And then he excused himself before he could make himself any more of a fool.

Maintenance.

It seemed painfully obvious in hindsight. With hundreds of miles between each destination, these American trains were bound to break here and there. He shouldn’t have expected any better. And for his mind to have immediately jumped to the worst scenario...

Stupid. He’d always been incredibly stupid. And now he’d scared not only himself with his overactive imagination, but Elizabeth as well. He increased the length of his stride, wanting to return as soon as possible to put her mind at ease. Perhaps he’d even give her the pennies she’d been asking for earlier.

He opened the door to their roomette, bold and confident and—

And—

Elizabeth wasn’t there.

“Elizabeth?” he asked to empty air, his heart suddenly pounding again.

Why did she constantly _do_ this?

He stepped straight back out into the corridor. Luckily, there were only two directions to travel and she hadn’t gone the way he’d just came. So, with a resolute breath, he began an opposite trek toward the front of the train.

It wasn’t _necessarily_ the end of the world, William tried to remind himself. The train stop had been a matter simple maintenance, so there was a good chance that this was something similar. Perhaps she even had a good reason for scampering this time. Members of the fairer sex were ultimately earthly, not heavenly creatures, despite all of poetry’s testaments to the contrary, so perhaps… well, perhaps she’d been overcome with a sudden… urge.

He stopped in front of the door to the women’s washroom and was gathering his courage to knock when a flash of pink caught his eye.

Brilliant pink.

Elizabeth’s dress pink.

He turned and pursued. She was outside the train itself, crouched on the boarding platform between their car and the next. She’d pressed herself against the forward door and was peering covertly through its circular window.

“Elizabeth!” William snapped, quickly joining her before the train moved and the silly girl fell off. “What are you doing?”

She whirled around, eyes wide. “Shhh!” she commanded. “Get down!” As he got within arm’s length, she tried to pull him down, but her grip was weak and he pushed her hands away.

“You have no idea how dangerous it is out here,” he said. “Not to mention extremely reckless and irresponsible and—”

“Four men boarded the train! Strange men. From the platform!” She tugged him down again, and this time he humored her. “I saw them from our window!”

“Yes. Our attendant said there was some required maintenance or other.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “No. Men in suits. Good suits.”

William let out a quiet laugh. “Miss Summers, what are you trying to say?”

“Look!”

She shoved him toward the window, forcing him to look through as she had. His gaze focused on a group of men standing halfway down the car, knocking on the door of a roomette, waiting for the occupant to answer, and his head seemed to tilt, vague memories slipping slowly into place…

And then his stomach plummeted.

“They’ve been doing that with every room,” Elizabeth told him.

William swallowed.

He was frozen. Utterly frozen.

There was nothing about the clothes that gave the men away. They had no badges. No uniform. In fact, he didn’t recognize the majority of them. Strangers they were, and strangers they would’ve remained… if it hadn’t been for one. The one in the back with hard eyes and a squashed nose that been broken twice and never healed right. The one whose name was Oliver Ratchett.

The one who was on the Council’s payroll.

William knew this because he’d approved Ratchett’s last expense report two months ago. There’d been one steel crossbow, thirty cursed arrows tipped in paralyzing curare, one set of silver chains, one set of steel chains, one bottle of laudanum, four bottles of chloroform…

“Mr. Pratt?”

He backed away from the window. “We need to get off the train. Now.”

Through the window of their own car, he could see the attendant distantly in his seat. Perhaps shamed by the earlier interaction with William, the man hadn’t gone back to his book. Instead his back was straight, scanning the corridor for movement. He’d notice if William and Elizabeth quickly returned to their compartment only to emerge just as quickly with the entirety of their luggage. Not to mention the extra time they’d waste with the Council’s hunters only several feet and a single pane of glass away…

William grabbed Elizabeth’s hand and started to lead her toward the station, but the girl didn’t budge, her legs locked in place like iron shafts.

“Elizabeth,” William urged. “We have to go.”

“But…? Our bag…” She tugged in the direction of their room.

“We have to leave it.”

“But—”

“Your men in suits? They’re from the Council. Hunters. Retrievers.” He swallowed. “The best of the best.”

Elizabeth’s face went white. A pang of guilt hit William for that. He didn’t want to hurt her, but they didn’t have time for niceties. “Come.”

This time, she obeyed. They quickly descended the steps to the station platform, William pulling her close behind. Here and there, a person or two milled about for local trains in drab, local colors… Oh why, oh _why_ had he gotten Elizabeth a dress that was so _pink_? The girl stuck out like a firework, and everything was still so open, so exposed… The long platform was punctuated only by a single row of wooden columns too narrow to hide behind. They held up the lower end of slanted roof that connected at the other side to a red brick building—a travelers’ hotel of some sort. William pulled Elizabeth toward its nearest door.

He tried _not_ to lock eyes with the man in an attendant’s uniform who was currently walking the length of the train. If he did, what would happen? Would the man recognize them as two passengers? Would he order them back aboard? Tell the Council’s men? The train _had_ made an unscheduled stop, and Ratchett and the others _had_ used it to climb aboard, which seemed to mean the two were working together in at least some capacity…

The questions continued to swirl in his head, fighting with his lungs for breath even as he and Elizabeth made it safely into the lobby of the hotel, traversed its length, made a turn, another turn, and then emerged out onto the main street of the small town. William didn’t stop though, not until the two were sheltered out of sight behind a collection of rubbish bins in an unpaved alleyway. The walls enclosing them were a mixture of familiar brick and white-washed wood. A group of chickens roamed the far end of the alley, making stray clucks.

William wrinkled his nose, then turned his attentions to Elizabeth. She hadn’t said anything since the train. “Are you alright?” he asked.

She swallowed, then nodded silently. “I…” she started in a tiny, wobbling voice. “I don’t understand. How did they find us?”

William frowned.

Among all his questions, it was one he hadn’t the luxury to ponder yet, but an obvious one nonetheless. Had they been spotted by someone and followed? They’d remained in their room for the vast majority of the trip, so the sighting must’ve happened in New Jersey. Or perhaps all the way back in London itself. But if so… then why now? What could’ve made the Council possibly wait all this time to strike when they could’ve—?

William groaned.

Stupid.

He was always so _stupid_.

“Mr. Pratt?” Elizabeth had taken a step closer and was looking up at him with concern.

“I suppose they found you the same way they found you back in California,” he muttered. When she blinked in confusion, he added: “A locator spell.”

“A locator spell?”

William nodded. “It’s how the Watcher’s Council discovers Potentials. There’s something in the line of the Slayer that has a particular magical… essence. A unique marker of sorts. They can target that in order to locate new Potentials. Or, in this case… one who’s gone astray.”

Elizabeth paled all over again. “They… They can find me then,” she said, seemingly more to herself than to him. “No matter where I go. How far I go… They’ll always be able to find me.” She stared blankly for a moment, then her eyes hardened. She looked back at William. Glared at William. A shiver passed over his skin. “You _knew_.”

“W-What?”

“You knew they would always be able find me,” she hissed, “but you said I could go back home anyway! Why did you lie?!”

“I didn’t lie!” William protested, trying to keep his voice low. He glanced left and right to make sure the alley was still deserted. “I just— I just forgot!”

“Forgot. There’s a magic spell that can track me across continents and you _forgot_?!”

“I’m sorry. Truly, I am. I—”

“Well, I don’t _accept_ your apology! I believed you. I _trusted_ you!”

“You still can.” William stepped forward, tried to grab her hands in comfort, but she pulled away. “Eliz— Miss Summers. I admit that I don’t entirely know the way forward from here—”

“Of course, you don’t! Because there _isn’t_ one! What’s the point of taking even another step if they can just—! Just…! God!” There were tears in her eyes now. She brought her hands up to scrub at them. “How the _hell_ could you forget?!”

“Because I’m useless!” William shouted. “Is that what you want to hear?! I’m useless and a coward and I have absolutely _no_ idea what I’m doing, but I thought it’d be better than nothing. Apparently I was silly to think that and my something was worse than nothing, so you’re right. Maybe the two of us should stop here, after all. We can go back to the platform and signal for Mr. Ratchett to come and collect.”

Elizabeth swallowed.

She took a step back, then another. “I… I didn’t mean…” She stared at him with wide, terrified eyes. Her whole frame shook. “I don’t want to go back there, Mr. Pratt. Please don’t let them take me back.”

William squeezed his eyes shut, exhaustion and regret bearing down against his thin frame. He fought against it. Didn’t know if he was close to victory or defeat.

Eventually, he patted his inner coat pocket and withdrew the money there. It was a fraction of the money he’d brought with him, but money nonetheless. He counted each bill quickly but carefully.

One hundred and fifty dollars.

They had one hundred and fifty dollars to ferry them the rest of the way across the continent. The fare from New York to Chicago—which they hadn’t even reached—had cost him thirty alone… not to mention the inevitable costs of a replacement travel bag, replacement clothes—all secondhand, of course, to save what little he could…

Assuming an incident like this didn’t simply happen all over again.

Damn.

He took a sharp breath, then released it. First order of business then: find a way to evade the Council before a follow-up spell was performed. Of course… to do that, he and Elizabeth would have to locate some sort of spell-blocking amulet. Or request something custom be made or cast from an obliging witch or warlock. Either way a seemingly impossible task, especially given the fact that they were currently stuck in chicken-pecking nowhere. Which, he guessed, was _truly_ the first order of business:

“Do you know where we are?” he asked Elizabeth.

She stared at him, the question seeming to shock her out of her stupor. “Why should I know?”

“Well… we are in America.”

Elizabeth looked around. Crossed her arms. “No,” she eventually said.

Splendid.

William frowned as he racked his brain for ideas. There had to be some reason why it’d been _this_ train station. Why the Council’s men had boarded _here_. There had to be something special about this minuscule town in the middle nowhere, in the godforsaken Yankee state of Ohio of all pl—

And then it hit him.

“I know where to go,” he said. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Internet history research part two! (aka othellia likes maps):
> 
> 1\. The word "yeah" was apparently [documented as early as 1863](https://www.grammarphobia.com/blog/2011/08/yay-yea-yeah.html) in the adventure novel, On the Plains, by Edward Sylvester Ellis.
> 
> 2\. A [map/timeline of rail construction](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/6b/52/dc/6b52dc971b80dae90dcf5361bfaf9494.png) in the Western US during the 1800s. Notably, Los Angeles wasn't connected to the rest of the US until 1877 via San Francisco. Before that... well, good luck.
> 
> 3\. A [map of rail lines from New York to Chicago in 1850](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/5/58/1850_Ohio_%26_Pennsylvania.jpg), with noted major stops in Pittsburgh and Crestline. Part of the overall [Pittsburgh, Fort Wayne, and Chicago Railway](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pittsburgh,_Fort_Wayne_and_Chicago_Railway). Seeing as how the true limited express didn't open until 1887, I may have taken some creative liberties with the time tables, but I did do some custom maths re: distances/times via google maps so that there wasn't any egregious teleportation. Apparently Pittsburgh was an important stop because they switched the passenger cars over to a different engine since they didn't need the extra power to make it through the Appalachians anymore.
> 
> 3\. I actually found a [colored postcard of the Alliance train station](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/ef/42/88/ef428802c915ce679ed3bb005f9009e9.jpg) at the time Buffy and William would've passed through, so I based my descriptions of that.
> 
> 4\. Railroad fares I tried to glean from a number of sources, but ultimately went with this historian's rough "[two or three cents per mile](https://truewestmagazine.com/fare-railroads-stagecoaches/)." I think I actually found the $30 price point for the New York to Chicago fare somewhere, but I didn't bookmark it, so shame on me. :(


	6. Act I - Chapter VI

Mr. Pratt helped Buffy down the steps of the small cab and onto the sidewalk. Two churches flanked the southern ends of the city square, their steeples black against the purple-blue sky. Buffy waited close beside Mr. Pratt as he paid the cab driver for their ride, dollar bill by dollar bill. He’d said he was fine in the cab, that _they_ were fine, but he had the same thin mouth and stern gaze that her mom got sometimes while looking over bills for the hotel.

The cab driver took their money with no comment. If the man thought it strange that they’d just paid twice as much for a horse and cab that went twice as slow as the direct train, he didn’t show it.

And then he was back in his driver’s seat and was gone, and Buffy was left in yet another strange city with Mr. Pratt, with not even a tiny bag to clutch onto this time.

Buffy tried not to cry over the few possessions she’d gained and then lost again—her brush and ribbons and books and the dress that she’d never even gotten to wear yet—because they hadn’t been hers. Not really. Everything that _was_ hers was still waiting for her in her small, sun-filled bedroom above the dining hall of her mother’s hotel. She just had to get home and everything would be okay again.

It had to.

“The cab driver said the river is west of here,” Mr. Pratt said. “Come. We shouldn’t tarry.”

Buffy swallowed. “Because of the Hellmouth?”

“Yes.”

Mr. Pratt had told her about Hellmouths during the five-hour ride, speaking in low, hushed tones the entire time despite the walls between them and the driver out front. There were a number of them all across the world—one here in Cleveland, another apparently within a day’s journey of her hometown. They were known as gathering places for demons, sites of mysterious deaths and never explained carnage. Certain humans tended to congregate around them too, witches and warlocks and the like.

Which was why she and Mr. Pratt had come.

If the Council was tracking her through a spell, there was bound to be a counter-spell that could shake them off.

Their main problem now was finding a witch. Mr. Pratt’s plan had seemed simple and straightforward enough in the cab—start in the city’s main square and walk closer and closer in the direction of the Hellmouth until they found one. The city of Cleveland as he’d described it had seemed like it would’ve been overflowing with the occult. But now, walking west along Superior Avenue…

“Are you _sure_ this is a Hellmouth?” Buffy asked.

“Ssh!”

“Sorry,” she said, not being sorry in the slightest. She lowered her voice to a whisper: “ _Are you sure this is a Hellmouth?_ ”

Because it looked like a normal city to her. Halfway between the industrialization of New Jersey and the rusticity of home, a hodgepodge of ordinary store-fronts flanked each side of the road, all between two and five stories. The sidewalk was filled with people going about their ordinary business as horses pulled ordinary-looking cabs and trolleys through the road.

True, many of the store-fronts were closed, but that was surely due to the late hour and not any sort of demonic threat.

“Looks… can be deceiving,” Mr. Pratt said.

Buffy frowned, scrunching her nose. She kept a look out for any sort of magic shop, but they seemed to be thin on the ground. She glanced up. Thin in the air too.

Every sign around her advertised some sort of grocer’s, or a tailor’s, or watch repair… Pretty much any business that _wasn’t_ a magical one seemed to be covered. But, then again… she and Mr. Pratt were also on one of the city’s main thoroughfares, and if her Los Angeles knowledge could be applied to other cities, hardly anything seedy was _ever_ on the main thoroughfare.

As they passed the occasional alleyway and side street, Buffy tried to imagine demons, actual demons, lurking in their shadows. She tried to imagine being someone with the power to flush them all out.

“Do you think we’ll run into her?” she asked.

“Who?” Mr. Pratt asked without pause.

“The Slayer. You said she sometimes gets sent to places like these.”

His footsteps slowed, but he didn’t stop. “I… I really couldn’t say,” he said after a moment. “Now truly, we must hurry.”

Short of sprinting through the streets of Cleveland, Buffy didn’t see how a generic “hurry” command would help them, but she went quiet all the same, which seemed to serve the same purpose in Mr. Pratt’s head.

They followed Superior Avenue for what seemed like forever. Buffy waited for Mr. Pratt to ask someone for directions, for help, for _anything_ , but all he did was scan the store-fronts on each side of the street, which remained entirely non-magical. Eventually, they reached a large intersection where their road turned into a bridge. Rather than cross it, Mr. Pratt turned them right down a long hill, and then left down further still.

Buffy’s feet started to ache. Back home, she used to roam up and down its roads from dawn to dusk, but it’d been weeks and weeks and weeks since then. She hadn’t walked in forever. Not really. Not after being cooped up in a travel crate, then the Watchers’ Council’s underground prison, then the boats across the Atlantic, then the train…

She hobbled slightly, but Mr. Pratt didn’t notice.

Instead, he took yet another turn onto River Street. The air gradually thickened with the stench of factory smoke and sewage. The buildings around them became more and more ragged, painted storefronts giving way to low-lying warehouses, commercial docks, and the occasional tavern. Dark masts and rigging poked up from behind the various roofs. The clothes of the people around them became less… tailored. It was fully nighttime now, and the two of them—Mr. Pratt in his crumpled, yet clean suit and Buffy in her pink dress—stuck out like stage lights. If they went much further, they were going to get robbed. They were going to lose the rest of their money. Up ahead, the stoneand steel bridge they hadn’t crossed now loomed a hundred feet above them, casting the street below into even darker shadow, and that was it.

“Mr. Pratt,” Buffy hissed.

“What?” he said, not looking at her.

“Mr. Pratt!” She tugged on his sleeve this time. Hard.

He stopped. Stared.

Finally.

“We’ve been walking for almost an hour,” she whined. “We need to ask someone for help.”

Mr. Pratt swallowed. “Magic is secret. It is my sacred duty to keep it a secret. We can’t simply divulge its existence to random passersby.”

“Well, we can’t _simply_ find a witch if we don’t.” At Mr. Pratt’s resulting frown, she surveyed the street. The gas lamps had been lit, creating sparse islands of light which people briskly travelled between. “I’m going to ask them.”

She scrambled out of his reach before he could stop her

“Wait!” he shouted. “Miss Summers! Elizabeth!”

But she wasn’t Elizabeth.

She was Buffy.

And by Buffy, she was going to get them out of this mess.

It was mostly men roaming the dark streets, but here and there a couple of women peppered themselves through the throng. Their dresses were all in dull, faded colors, and their faces were smudged with the same sweat and grit as the men, but they were still women. And it was one of these women, hair bound with a blue scarf, that Buffy approached.

“Hello,” Buffy said. She had to repeat it twice before the woman stopped. “My companion and I are…” Buffy stopped herself before she admitted they were lost, because, well… if any nearby thieves weren’t already on alert, they would be. “We’re looking for a particular kind of shop. A… a magic shop, or a witch, if you happen to know of— Wait! Come back!”

But the woman was already hurrying away after having made a hasty sign of the cross.

Buffy slumped and let out an exhausted huff.

“Elizabeth,” Mr. Pratt said, closing the distance between them. “While I appreciate your dedication, now is not the— Elizabeth!”

She escaped his grasp again and approached another woman. Younger this time. Asked the same question and, this time, received only a blank stare. So Buffy went up to a pair of women next. Received only nervous giggles. Dodged Mr. Pratt. Approached another woman. Received directions to one of the city’s theatre and a famous medium that would be in town next month. Then another woman. And another.

All useless.

With her latest failure, Buffy remained rooted to the sidewalk. She needed to take another approach; that much was clear. What _wasn’t_ clear was what that approach should be. Asking people for help wasn’t working. Wandering around blindly wasn’t working—

“Hey, kid.”

Buffy started, then looked around for the source of the voice.

Her eyes landed a woman lounging against the opening of a nearby alley. Once Buffy spotted her, it was hard to look away. The woman had on a bright red shawl over a brown petticoat. Her cheeks seemed to be over-painted with rouge, as if competing with the shawl for attention. It was odd, though, _why_ she was just standing there when everyone else on the street clearly had other places to be, and especially so late at night…

And then it all clicked.

Buffy swallowed. Her mother had given her lectures about women like this one. Women who’d lost the support of their families or never had it to begin with. And with no other means to provide for themselves…

“You can’t ask questions like that to normal folk,” the red-shawled woman said with a small smile. “You’ll scare their pretty puritanical heads off.”

Buffy continued to stare. She knew it was rude, but it was impossible not to. Another world had suddenly collided into hers, opening doors onto things far more exotic and terrifying than demons could ever be. And even though she’d been taught not to associate with people like this… this… lady of the night, it made sense that such a person would know things about _other_ creatures of night. Not to mention, Buffy needed the help…

The woman extended her hand and gestured for Buffy to come closer.

Buffy did, taking a step forward, and was immediately jolted back.

Mr. Pratt hands were clamped down around her shoulders. “What are you doing?” he demanded in hushed tones. “We cannot associate with… _harlots_!”

“Why not?” Buffy asked, looking him clear in the eye.

“B-because she’s… she’s… She’s unclean!”

Buffy swallowed slowly. “Then I’ll be sure to thank you for preserving my cleanliness after your Council kidnaps me again.”

Mr. Pratt stared at her, confusion gradually giving way to dismay. Buffy shook out of his control and headed to the woman.

“You know about magic? And witches?” Buffy asked.

Up close, the woman looked like any other woman and was all the scarier for it. She shrugged. “It gets a bad reputation… But then again, so do I.” She smiled again and looked past Buffy towards Mr. Pratt. There was no way she missed their conversation, hushed as it’d been. “I can give the two of you the information you seek… as long as you give me something in return.”

Mr. Pratt’s face went red and splotchy. “Excuse me, madam,” he sputtered. “She is a _child_!”

The woman glared at him. “I _meant_ money.” Her back straightened as she pushed herself off the wall. “One dollar, and I’ll tell you where you need to go.”

“A dollar?” Mr. Pratt said. “To you? I most certainly will not.”

“Give her the dollar,” Buffy commanded.

Mr. Pratt gaped at her in stunned disbelief. His brows furrowed as though he were about to argue, but Buffy glared at him, and then glared further, until finally he started to fidget. At last, he fidgeted his hand into his breast pocket, withdrew the envelope of their remaining funds, and passed over a single dollar.

“Much obliged,” the woman said, stashing it into a small purse that appeared from nowhere and disappeared just as quickly into the folds of her petticoat. She regarded both of them. “You want Maggie’s shop. It’s at the corner of Cartwright and Merwin. Straight down this road, then a right. Tell her Beth sent you.”

“Maggie’s shop,” Buffy repeated. “Cartwright and Merwin. Thank you.”

Mr. Pratt didn’t say anything, and continued not to say anything as he practically dragged Buffy away.

“You should’ve thanked her too,” she muttered to him, once they were out of earshot.

“Elizabeth…” He looked pained. Came to a stop. “We can’t trust a word she said.”

Buffy tugged free and crossed her arms. “Do you have somewhere else in mind to go?” She waited for his response. Uncrossed her arms. Clasped them in front of her. Waited some more. “Anywhere?”

Mr. Pratt sighed. “Fine,” he said. “We can pursue this… _lead_. But if anything should happen…” He twisted, gazing back at where Beth still stood at the entrance to the alley. She locked eyes with the two of them and gave another close-lipped smile. “I don’t like this. At all.”

“Noted,” Buffy said. She stuck her hand out and affected her best British accent: “Now come. We mustn’t tarry.”

Mr. Pratt blinked, frowning, but took her hand, and they continued the way they’d been going.The bridge still spawned wide across the street like the entrance to some cursed mountain pass, but seemed less intimidating now that they had a destination. Buffy ignored the few men the occasionally watched them from the shadows. At the sign for Merwin Avenue, they took a right. It was mostly factories in this part of the city—closed for the most part, this late at night, their windows barren and hollow. Buffy suppressed a shiver. Then, almost abruptly, the factories gave way to a maze of lumberyards and battered shop fronts. A tavern here, a distillery there, a block of apartments with the laundry strung up between the willows…

Eventually, they reached the corner of Merwin and Cartwright. A corner no different than the other hundred in the city they’d passed so far. Buffy swiveled, searching the few ordinary shop fronts as Mr. Pratt muttered, “Useless waste of time,” until:

“I _think_ it’s that one,” Buffy said.

Mr. Pratt turned to follow her gaze. “Elizabeth,” he said. “Don’t be silly. That’s a book shop, not a magic shop.”

Buffy ignored him to walk closer. Indeed, the building _seemed_ like a book shop, its sign reading _O’Shaughnessy’s Books_ , with several stacks piled neatly in its front window. Between one of the piles rested a small, cylindrical, dark blue crystal.

“Buffy—” Mr. Pratt started.

“Look around, Mr. Pratt. Would you open a book shop here? Does it look like it belongs here? And still open? At this hour?”

Mr. Pratt’s eyes narrowed as he peered at the store with what seemed to be new eyes. “I… cede your point.”

Buffy approached the entrance.

“Wait,” Mr. Pratt said.

Buffy did. She stared at him in impatience.

“We enter together. For safety.”

Buffy sighed, but stepped aside to let him open the door and usher the two of them in.

Together.

For safety.

Inside, the store was small, hardly bigger than her hotel’s storeroom. Three racks of books took up the majority of the floor space, each reaching just above Buffy’s head. An older woman manned the checkout desk, reading a book of her own. Her hair was red but greying in places, and she wore a green dress cut in a simple yet well-tailored pattern.

She looked up as they entered. “May I help you?” Her accent was strange like Mr. Pratt’s, yet slightly… different.

“Mrs. Maggie?” Buffy asked.

“Yes?” the woman said, smiling.

“Elizabeth,” Mr. Pratt said. “Perhaps if I—”

“Beth said to say she sent us,” Buffy said.

“Elizabeth!”

“Hmm…” Maggie put aside her book to study them closely. “I suppose this isn’t about the ghouls in Mrs. Kelly’s attic giving her grief again then.”

“Ghouls,” Buffy repeated. She turned to Mr. Pratt, eyes wide. “Ghouls exist too?”

“Of course not,” he automatically replied, not sounding convincing in the slightest. “Because they are imaginary. Like magic is imaginary.”

Buffy frowned at him. They’d been specifically searching for someone who could do magic.They’d been directed here to find that person. So why was—?

“Oh, do forgive him,” Maggie said, drawing Buffy’s attention. She was looking at Mr. Pratt, and something had hardened in her eyes. “Watchers have always been such rigid creatures. Caught in their self-imposed patterns. Sticking their English noses in places they don’t understand…”

“ _Excuse_ me, madam,” Mr. Pratt protested. “I—”

“And you…” Maggie continued, turning her eye on Buffy, who took a shaky, reflexive step back. “Slayer-marked, if my eyes don’t fail me… I’ll have to give Beth a thank you.”

“How…” Buffy started. “How do you know who we are?”

Maggie smiled and looked from Buffy to Mr. Pratt again. She pointed at the latter. “Him, it was simple. English. Fussy. Male. Seeking to convince a witch about the non-existence of magic even as he waltzes into her own property…” The air seemed to crackle with something. Buffy swallowed, almost seeking out Mr. Pratt’s hand to hold, and then the tension ebbed. Maggie seemed to sigh without physically sighing. Then she returned her attention to Buffy. “As for you, well… Young girl with a Watcher…? At least I _hope_ you’re of the Slayer line.”

Buffy blinked. Frowned. The older woman seemed to be insinuating something, but she didn’t know what.

“So, why’ve you come here?” Maggie asked briskly. “She’s not the Slayer yet, is she?”

“No, she—” Mr. Pratt paused. Recollected himself. “We need a protection spell,” he said stiffly.

“Oh? Do be more specific. We are on a Hellmouth, after all. Only four warehouses down the road, in fact.”

“Really?” Buffy said. “Can we see it?”

“Of course not,” Mr. Pratt scolded. “It’s dangerous, and… and wrong, and—”

“Sealed and therefore invisible to the human eye,” Maggie said. “As all Hellmouths are.”

Buffy frowned.

“Your spell, Watcher?” Maggie said.

“Yes, I…” Mr. Pratt looked back towards the front of the shop, towards the un-curtained window with a shadowed view of the mostly empty street and the unlocked door. “Are you sure it’s safe to talk about such things so openly? And if you are a witch, where are your… possessions?”

Maggie shrugged. “Tucked away. Mediums and spiritualists may have recently taken this country by storm, but I remember the old days. And their current popularity doesn’t mean they don’t still occasionally attract the attention of righteous preacher types. Attention I’d prefer to avoid…”

“But—”

“The people who need to find me always seem to manage. After all, you are here, are you not?”

Mr. Pratt frowned. “I suppose…”

Buffy’d had enough of this. They didn’t have _time_.

“We need something to block a tracking spell,” she said, pushing past Mr. Pratt to lay both her hands on the checkout desk.

“Elizabeth!”

“Oh ho…” Maggie said, smiling again. “On the run from something then.” Her eyes took on a knowing look as she bent to regard Buffy fully. “Or… someone?”

“That is none of your business,” Mr. Pratt snapped.

Maggie straightened, then trailed her finger around the side of her lips in slow thought. “A Watcher and Potential by their lonesome atop a Hellmouth… I thought you lot carted them off to London and kept them there until they’d served their purpose.”

Buffy swallowed.

Mr. Pratt’s hand came to rest on her shoulder. His grip was light, but firm. “Elizabeth, perhaps we should go.”

“I can indeed help you,” Maggie said. “For a price.”

“Now,” Mr. Pratt added, and steered her towards the door. Buffy tried to dig her heels in, butshe wasn’t heavy enough, and her shoes skidded easily across the wooden floor.

“Mr. Pratt—”

“If it’s your own Council you’re seeking to avoid, I’m more than happy to assist,” Maggie said. “I have some charms that will let you easily evade them.”

Mr. Pratt stopped. Turned. His face was white now. “We’re not…”

“Mr. Pratt…” Buffy said. She waited until he let her look at him, staring past his glasses and straight into his blue eyes. “You promised.”

He shifted. Almost trembled. He still wanted to leave, that much was obvious, but they both knew they had nowhere else to go, no other magic shops let alone _trusted_ ones, and time was ticking. Finally, he sighed, shoulder dropping. “Very well.” He turned. “Madam, name your price.”

Maggie considered him. “Just a reading. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

“A reading…” Buffy said. “Like… we have to buy a book?”

Mr. Pratt was frowning again. “A fortune reading, I presume.”

“Of the young miss, yes,” Maggie said.

“What do I have to do?” Buffy asked.

Maggie stepped backwards and gestured to the counter. “I stand on one side. You stand on the other. I read your palm.”

“And… that’s it? No cards or candles or…” Buffy tried to think of all the mystic parlor games and mediums she’d ever heard about. “Anything?”

Maggie smiled. “Something to keep in mind about witches. And others, for that matter.” Her eyes swept over her sparse and tidy store. “The more capable you are, the less… materials you require.”

Buffy turned to Mr. Pratt in silent question.

“If you’re asking me,” he said. “I thought I’ve made it clear that I do not approve of _any_ of this, but…” He paused, taking a deep breath. “I do not relish the thought of the Council finding us either.” And waved towards the counter with twitchy jerks.

Buffy pressed her lips in against a small smile.

She turned, taking her place against the customer’s side of the counter. Maggie positioned herself on the other.

“Left hand,” Maggie said, and waited for Buffy to obey. She stared at it for a long time, eyes tracing the lifelines and other creases, and then nodded. “Now the other.” Buffy exchanged hands. A similar silence settled over the counter. Buffy waited, breath tight, to feeling anything… well, mystical, but all there was was a small draft. Eventually, Maggie drew back.

“So…” Buffy said, withdrawing her hand. “What did you see?”

Maggie arched a brow. “Never said I had to tell you, did I?”

Buffy frowned. Technically, that was true, Maggie _hadn’t_ , but they were Buffy’s hands, weren’t they?

“Now,” Maggie said. “My part of the exchange. Just sit tight a minute, and I’ll get you your charms.” She disappeared through a door in the back.

Pushing aside the disappointment of not finding out the answers to her own reading, Buffy sidled close to Mr. Pratt, who was still fidgety, but silently so. She looked up at him. “What’cha thinking?”

“Our next moves,” he said, gazing forward at seemingly nothing in particular. “Even if the Council can no longer track us, they’ll know where we’re going.”

Buffy swallowed. “So, what? We can’t go back home after all?”

“No… No, just…” He turned, looking down at her. “We have two options—return to our previous express route and try to race them to California, or… take detours. Attempt to make ourselves truly untraceable.”

Buffy considered it. “I like the second option.”

“And maintain our funds while doing so.”

“Oh.” Buffy pressed her lips together. “Perhaps just a couple detours then?”

“Perhaps. There is, after all, only one rail line of consequence once we pass Denver. And once we reach Los Angeles…” Mr. Pratt frowned.

“What?” Buffy asked.

“Even if we evade them on the trains, it is highly likely they’ll be watching the hotel.”

Buffy stiffened. “But…”

“There is the possibility of sending a message… A telegraph, perhaps, in some sort of code. One only you and your mother could understand. In which we could establish an alternate place to meet. One that holds meaning to just the two of you… Do you have a place like that?”

“M-maybe,” Buffy admitted. Her head was suddenly flooded with a hundred places all over Los Angeles: the bakery she and her mother visited every Wednesday, always grabbing an extra pastry for Mr. Davies the Concierge; the banks of the river where they used to watch the livestock and produce ships float downriver to the harbor at San Pedro; the fields on the hill behind the hotel, blossoming with wildflowers every June…

But she could only pick one, and whatever she picked, she had to be sure that her mother would understand what it was, in code, because the Council could be reading the telegram, tearing apart the envelope with filthy hands, the same hands they’d used to grab her out of the street, and—

Buffy shuddered.

“Can… Can I have a bit of time to think about it?,” she asked Mr. Pratt.

“Very well. It is important and requires thought, and we do have a _bit_ of time. Though not much. Overall, we’d want it sent as soon as possible to make sure it arrives well before us.”

“Understood.”

As Buffy took a deep breath, she was suddenly hyperaware of the bookcases around her. Of the fact that she was in a strange shop, in a strange city still thousands of miles away from home, with a thousand things involved in actually getting home, things she didn’t have the resources to do anything about because, at the end of the day, she didn’t have any skills and she didn’t have any money, and, when she really looked at it, _really_ looked at it… There wasn’t much separating her from Beth and her red shawl on the street.

Nothing much at all.

“Mr. Pratt…?” Buffy said. She waited until he was looking at her, then swallowed. “Thank you.Truly. For helping me.”

Instead of smiling, Mr. Pratt turned somewhat vaguely uncomfortable. He tugged at his collar for a moment, and seemed about to speak when—

“Here you are,” Maggie said, emerging from the back of the shop with two glass lockets dangling from her hand. “Keep these around your necks and you shouldn’t have any troubles from scryers and their like.”

With a last quick look at Mr. Pratt, Buffy took the charm that Maggie offered her. The glass was slightly warm to the touch and there was something inside. Something grey and…

“Ash?” Buffy asked, lifting the locket to get a better view.

“Yes,” Maggie replied. “An element of fire to help combat spells of water.”

Buffy frowned. That wasn’t an explanation at all, but Mr. Pratt was nodding as if it was. He placed the charm around his neck, tucking it out of sight beneath his shirt collar, and Buffy did the same.

“And if these don’t work…” Mr. Pratt said, casting a cool eye at Maggie.

Maggie splayed her open palms out. “A flaw in our exchange, I admit,” she said. “You have no reason to trust me. However, you also have no reason _not_ to trust me. That and… Are you any worse off than you were?”

Mr. Pratt grimaced. “Point taken.” He turned to Buffy. “Ready?”

Truth was, Buffy didn’t know. But she nodded all the same. She took his hand when he offered it, and they headed towards the door—

“One last thing,” Maggie called out. The two of them stopped, turned, and regarded the witch. “I know it’s not part of the arrangement, but if there’s ever trouble in this city… _do_ remember to think of us, won’t you?” Maggie smiled a thin-lipped smile. “That is, once you’ve become the Slayer.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> History notes continued. My extended family is actually from Cleveland + my great-grandparents immigrated there in the 1920's, so this chapter was especially fun to research:
> 
> 1\. So there is a God, because there exists [a map of Cleveland](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/2/2e/Cleveland_1877.jpg) in 1877 in high res. I had no idea of its existence until I was about to write the last chapter. I decided to place the Hellmouth on the oxbow in the river because I thought it was topographically unique and why not. That the oxbow was historically called [Irishtown Bend](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Irishtown_Bend) and home to a number of factories plus lower-income housing for their workers was a bonus.
> 
> 2\. A picture of [Superior Ave from 1869](https://cdm16014.contentdm.oclc.org/digital/collection/p4014coll18/id/1570/rec/4). Many other pictures are in the same gallery.
> 
> 3\. The main bridge that spanned the Cuyahoga River in the late 1800s was the [Superior Viaduct](https://clevelandhistorical.org/items/show/65), named for its connection to/extension of Superior Ave. Construction started in 1875 and it wasn't completely finished until December 1878, a couple months after this fic, but Buffy and William never crossed over it, so boom. Still technically accurate. (Not that anyone, including myself, cares at that level of granular detail.) 
> 
> 4\. [A colored woodcut of the Superior Viaduct](https://c8.alamy.com/comp/B24JM4/cleveland-ohio-from-the-viaduct-over-the-cuyahoga-river-1880s-hand-B24JM4.jpg).
> 
> 5\. Google street view of [a remaining/existing segment](https://goo.gl/maps/jQu8iPjY7soXRgLX8) of the Superior Viaduct.
> 
> Also to my dear readers, if any of you are eligible to vote in the US and haven't voted yet, please do so tomorrow/today! <3


	7. Act I - Chapter VII

Buffy sat perched on the edge of her seat, watching the wooden needle go in and out and in again through the thread.

“And that’s how you do a purl,” Mrs. Hanover said. “Would you like to try?”

Buffy nodded eagerly and extended her hands as the old woman passed over her half-finished scarf. She fidgeted a bit, rearranging the yarn ball so it didn’t hang awkwardly over her or roll off the train seat onto the floor, and then began. It was tricky, and the yarn slipped off her fingers several times, but with a couple corrections, Buffy managed to capture the yarn against the tapered end of the needle and slipped it through the loop.

“Very good!” Mrs. Hanover cheered with smattering of delicate applause. “A very fine stitch, indeed.” She threw Buffy a crooked smile that was nearly as white as her hair. “Now do that a thousand more times and you’ll have yourself a scarf.”

Buffy melted halfway down her seat, eyes intentionally widening as she stared at Mrs. Hanover in exhausted disbelief, and then they both burst into giggles, Buffy’s admittedly louder and more uncontrolled.

Then, from the center aisle, a shape walked into view, and there was a sound of cleared throat.

It was a familiar sound.

“Oh,” Buffy said, scrambling up into a proper seated position. “Mr. Pr— I mean, William.” She smiled as innocently she could, which wasn’t very. Her eyes dropped from his disapproving face to the sandwiches in his hands. “How was the dining car?”

“May I speak with you?” Mr. Pratt gestured beside him. It was a simple enough request, polite to all of those who saw and heard, but the gesture had been sharp, and Buffy _knew_ she was in the wrong.

From her temporarily commandeered window seat, she half-scooted, half-crawled over Mrs. Hanover as delicately as possible, then brushed her skirts smooth. “What?” she asked softly.

“You know what,” he whispered back.

Buffy sighed.

It was the Council. It was _always_ the Council, despite having not seen hide nor hair of them since Ohio. But at the same time…

Buffy turned back to her knitting companion. “Sorry, Mrs. Hanover,” she said. “My brother”—they’d found it to be an easier lie than ‘father’—“just reminded me of some… lessons. I forgot to study them today.”

Mrs. Hanover smiled. “That’s quite alright, dear. You know where to find me.” She clasped Buffy’s hands briefly, her knuckles knobby and cold, before sending her off with a small, cheery wave.

Buffy forced herself to give a small, cheery one back.

Then she turned and followed Mr. Pratt back to their cabin. It would have been a bit of luxury to anyone else. Was _still_ a bit of luxury, really. She knew Mr. Pratt was pinching pennies at this point, but the only alternative was third class, open seats like Mrs. Hanover’s, with only a pull-out sheet for privacy at night and absolutely nothing at all during the day. It was the exact opposite of what Mr. Pratt wanted, keeping Buffy as sequestered and unseen as possible.

Just like the other Watchers had wanted.

But Mr. Pratt was different from the other Watchers. He’d proven himself to be different. Buffy tried her best to remember that, especially as she entered their tiny cabin and Mr. Pratt pulled the door shut behind him with a dull clack.

“You left,” he said simply.

“Sorry. I was bored.”

He looked at her in a way that _told_ her it wasn’t a good answer.

“Sorry,” she repeated again.

It was all she could say.

Mr. Pratt’s eyes were tired. His face was tired. She knew it because it was the same face she saw in the bathroom mirror sometimes. And she was suddenly very aware of all of the sacrifices he’d made to get them both this far. And she did understand that and she _did_ feel guilty about sneaking out and putting those sacrifices at risk… But she also couldn’t just sit in the same steel box for hours and hours and hours a day, _every_ day, not after what she’d been through, and couldn’t he see that was a sacrifice for her too?

But Buffy didn’t know how to say any of that without it sounding like childish whining, so she stayed quiet.

Eventually, Mr. Pratt sighed. He handed her one of the sandwiches and collapsed onto the folded-up bottom bunk of their tiny two-bunk cabin—they _always_ ate their meals in what was _always_ a tiny two-bunk cabin. Then he unwrapped his own sandwich and, with his free hand, began reading his latest book from where he’d left off.

After a moment, Buffy did the same.

Hers was another adventure book. Buffy loved adventure books. Thought she’d loved adventure books. After the fifth one on this trip, she was starting to suspect that she _hated_ adventure books. She made it half a chapter before the usual restless boredom scratched in. Her eyes wandered from the pages to stare out the window. She bit off a portion of her sandwich—ham and mustard—and chewed. Outside, there was the exact same overcast scenery as there’d been an hour ago.

And an hour ago before that.

At least she had a window, she guessed. She tried not to think back to the time she’d spent in London, or rather… beneath it. She tried not to think about the men who hadn’t seemed to care whether she lived or died, the seemingly endless parade of them which _had_ ended with…

Buffy lowered her sandwich and took a cautious sideways peek—not like her companion would’ve noticed if she’d stared out right. His shoulders were hunched again, frame crumpling into itself as he let himself get absorbed by his current book. Buffy supposed, if she had to make a binary choice, he was on the handsomer side of things. That was, there was nothing outwardly ugly about him, and his face seemed to match the type the maids always gossiped about in the laundry rooms back at her mother’s hotel, but beyond that pseudo-praise… There wasn’t anything special about Mr. Pratt. He was just an older man, like so many of his purported colleagues. Boring. Book loving. And yet…

“Why did you become a Watcher?” Buffy asked.

Mr. Pratt started, blinking as he re-entered the reality of their tiny cabin.

“Excuse me?” he asked.

“Why did you become a Watcher?”

Mr. Pratt frowned. “I’m not.” As Buffy twisted her nose in dissatisfaction, he sighed. “I’m _not_. I’m an auditor. Was… an auditor, I suppose.”

“What’s that?”

“A kind of accountant.”

“For the Watcher’s Council.”

“Yes.”

“Why?” Buffy asked, prompting only a blank stare until _she_ sighed. “I mean, didn’t you ever want to do anything else?”

Mr. Pratt lifted an eyebrow. “Why do you ask?”

“I’m bored.”

It was the truth.

Mr. Pratt closed his book. Stared at the opposite wall for a good while. “I’m not sure there was anything else I wanted to do,” he finally said. “That is, I never showed very much proficiency in most of the things I studied. Even the things I suppose I was rather…” He coughed. “Passionate about.” He lifted his book.

_The Georgics by Virgil, translated by William Sotheby, Esq._

“Books?” Buffy asked blankly. She’d seen the title ever since he’d first bought it, but that didn’t mean she knew anything about it, short of its guaranteed boring book aura. She’d bet the remainder of their savings there wasn’t much adventure or romance in it.

Not that adventure was the glowing review it once was.

“Poetry,” Mr. Pratt said. “Specifically. I mainly studied it and the classics at Cambridge. Not that the knowledge lends itself directly to any sensible profession…”

Buffy pursed her lips as she tried to read through his narrow, British lines. “So, do you… write any poetry?”

Mr. Pratt flushed red. “Y-yes, I suppose.”

“Oh.” Buffy fidgeted slightly, biting her lip. “Can I see any of it?”

“No.”

His answer was so firm, Buffy flinched in surprise.

“Oh, dear!” Mr. Pratt quickly said. “I didn’t mean ‘no’ as in… It’s nothing against you, I swear, it’s just n-no one has ever… well, excepting my mother, of course, but that’s—” He continued to stumble and stutter, growing more incomprehensible by the second.

Buffy snorted softly to herself. She’d never seen a grown man so embarrassed. It was rather cute, all things told, and understandable. University degrees aside, she’d guess her own stabs at poetry wouldn’t be much better, and…

Her memory caught on something, and she frowned.

“You mentioned your mother before,” she said.

“D-did I?” His blush was still there, but he seemed less terrified at the prospect of this new topic.

“When I was… When I was still in London. I don’t remember exactly _what_ you said…” Her fingers brushed over her wrists; although the scabs from the Watcher’s chains had healed by now, their cold feelings lingered. “But I didn’t like it.”

“Oh.” Mr. Pratt looked thoughtful. “I suppose it was a similar conversation to this,” he finally said. “I told you about my father. How he was a Watcher who died in the line of duty.”

Bits and pieces of their previous conversation floated back. “And I said you were going to die like him… and leave your mother alone.”

“Yes, well…” He shifted, face pinched. “That’s why I was taken on by the Council as an accountant and not a Watcher. Less glamorous, to be sure, but safer.”

“Until me.”

Mr. Pratt remained silent, not quite meeting her eyes, and then turned his head away entirely. He stared at the opposite wall.

Buffy swallowed. “Where’s your mother now?” she heard herself ask.

“At home, I suppose.” He glanced at Buffy. “The Council wouldn’t attack her because of me, if that’s what you were thinking.”

“That’s not…”

Buffy was busy picturing her own mother at home, sending all the hotel servants and herself into a panic at Buffy’s disappearance. It’d happened at night with no one to see. Buffy barely remembered it herself. There must’ve have been a drug of some kind involved, laudanum, opium… because it’d felt like a nightmare at the time. One where her body was still half-asleep and she hadn’t been able to move or scream. And because of that, she’d left no clues. Her mother would’ve had no clue, really, other than the two well-dressed men who’d come the day prior. The men who’d talked about some distant and exclusive boarding school, and then, when Buffy’s mother hadn’t been interested, started a fearsome rant about demons and destiny.

Her mother had them kicked out of the hotel shortly after. She’d told Buffy they’d seen the last of them.

And now she was alone.

Just like Mr. Pratt’s mother was now alone.

“Did your mother know?” Buffy asked. “About your plans to help me? Did you tell her?”

“Not… entirely.”

“What?” She imagined Mr. Pratt sneaking out in the dead of night, and imagined Mrs. Prattthe next morning, calling him down for breakfast to hear only silence. “That’s terrible! How could you—?!”

“But she was the one who encouraged me to help you,” Mr. Pratt said. “Though she never outright said it in those words.”

Buffy paused, taken aback. Her imaginings jerked to a stop and she wasn’t entirely sure what new pictures to replace them with. “And… after?”

“After?”

“After I reach home. What will you do then? Will your mother…?”

Mr. Pratt attempted a smile, which slipped and broke into a grimace. “She will be well taken care of,” he managed.

The realization hit Buffy like a train wreck.

There _was_ no ‘after’ for Mr. Pratt. Not with the Council. If they’d followed her to Ohio to get her back—her, a mere runaway pawn—what would they do one of their own? Someone who’d betrayed them?

In trying to get back to her mother, Buffy had taken Mr. Pratt away from his.

Forever.

“Don’t be sad,” Mr. Pratt said quickly. “This isn’t your fault.”

His assurances only made her feel worse. How could he say that when tears were already stinging at her eyes, clouding up her vision?

She sniffed. “But I…”

“Elizabeth, my decision to undertake this journey was mine and mine alo—”

“Buffy.”

Mr. Pratt blinked. “Excuse me?”

Buffy took a deep breath. Sniffed back a couple more tears. “My name is Buffy. Not Elizabeth. Everyone back home… my friends… my mom… They all call me Buffy.”

“I…” Mr. Pratt’s face seemed to be blank of emotion. Then he nodded. “Buffy,” he repeated. “It is… quite a unique name.”

As if she hadn’t heard _that_ before.

With a quick rub at her eyes, Buffy managed to regain enough control of herself to shrug. “I’m a unique person,” she said.

Mr. Pratt smiled. “Indeed.”

* * *

The Union Pacific line spent approximately fifteen minutes at each of its scheduled stops. William had a copy of the time tables and sat with Elizabeth (no, sat with _Buffy_ ) at every one of them, pocket watch out, waiting with stilled breath until the low rumble started up and the train moved once more.

The latest station was Bryan, WY, a small town that seemed as though it’d been built only for the railroad. They watched as the watch hands ticked slowly towards the fifteen minute mark.

Then ticked towards sixteen minutes.

Seventeen…

At twenty minutes, William stood.

“Pack our bag,” he ordered. “Just in case. Be ready.”

Buffy nodded, her eyes wide and white, and scurried to grab their small bag off the storage rack. She paused with her hands halfway outstretched, then turned. “Are you…?”

“Someone has to check.”

With a last resolute look, he left the temporary safety of their cabin. Because that’s all it was. Temporary. If he hoped for the best and stayed inside, they’d be sitting ducks. If he assumed the worse and immediately hopped off the train, they’d be worse than sitting ducks, stranded with not enough money to buy a ticket to Promontory, let alone the remaining miles to Los Angeles.

William’s hands shook as he closed the door behind him. He settled for clenching them into fists and forced his way down the narrow corridor. Beneath his clothes, the glass of the Irish witch’s charm was smooth and warm against his skin. He had to trust in it. Had to believe it was working and that no one had tracked them. After all, there were other types of delays along these rail lines. Also, there was no hellmouth here. No Council outpost to send forth Watchers from…

The hallway of their car was empty, so William made his way towards the next. Robbed of its constant workings and rumblings, the train’s interior was eerily silent. As soft as he tried to step, the thud of his footsteps echoed back to him, mixing dizzily with the rush of blood in his ears.

The next car was empty as well. William kept moving. Although a couple more like this and he’d take his chances in Bryan. Then, as he pulled open the door to third car, the sound crashed back in—a murky buzz of whispered and not so whispered conversation, pierced by a desperate shout.

“Please, everyone! Remain calm! Return to your seats!”

William hurried forward.

It was one of the third-class cars, filled from left to ride side with open seats and windows. Several dozen people were crowded at the far door where the seating area ended and the narrow corridor that led to the public washrooms and extra storage began. The door which was currently closed and manned by two train attendants.

William pushed his way gently against the back of the crowd, then pushed less gently when he failed to make headway.

“Please, sir,” the attendant repeated as William reached the front. His large moustache frowned in tandem with his mouth. “I need you to step back with the others.”

“What’s going on?” William asked.

“Nothing, just—”

“They _say_ it was an animal attack,” a middle-aged woman whispered beside him. A tartan scarf was wrapped around her. She shivered and drew it tighter. “Like they expect us to go ‘back to our seats’ with such a beast on the loose!”

“An animal…” Decades of Watcher’s stories rushed into William, filling him with enough trepidation to blurt out: “I’m a doctor.”

The first attendant blinked. “What?”

“I’m a doctor,” William repeated, trying not to panic. He had no idea what he’d do if they actually expected him to… well, _doctor_ , but there was no recanting now. “So, if there is a patient who needs my help…”

The first attendant looked at the second one—a scrawny, nervous young man with less facial hair than William, who looked more confused than the passengers.

“Wait here,” the first commanded.

As he cracked opened the door and shuffled through, William caught sight of a pale limb on the ground. His stomach churned. His immediate instincts screamed at him to run back to Buffy, to check on her, but he kept himself stoic and waited as the crowd continued to berate the remaining attendant.

Finally the door opened again. Just a crack. The head of the first attendant poked out. “They said to let you through.”

With a last fortifying breath, William accepted the invitation. He ignored the shouts behind him—someone else yelled they were a doctor too—and stepped awkwardly into the narrow corridor. There wasn’t much room.

The corpse on the floor was taking up the majority of it.

And it was a corpse. The face was that of a young woman, her brown hair stark against skin that was whiter than alabaster. The white that only came when every last drop of blood had been drained from it. And as for the woman’s neck…

“Found her not even ten minutes ago,” said an older man. From his uniform and bearing, he seemed to be the lead conductor. “We called the authorities. They’re on their way.” He let out a slow breath as he shook his head. “Ever seen anything like it, Doc?”

William crouched low, hoping against hope that his eyes were betraying him. He even stopped to wipe his glasses, making sure they weren’t smudged, but no, two puncture wounds remained painfully visible against the side of the corpse’s neck, red and open and raw.

“No,” William said truthfully, straining to keep his voice from shaking; an auditor’s place had never been on the battlefield. “I’m afraid I haven’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't have much on the historical notes front this time. Mostly just that Buffy and William are currently on the [Union Pacific half of the first Transcontinental Railroad](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/First_Transcontinental_Railroad). Also I decided to go decidedly anachronistic with this chapter and the next. The [first vestibuled train](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vestibuled_train) that allowed easy movement between cars wasn't invented until 1887. However, I outlined this fic before I did a whole bunch of research and I wanted Buffy wandering the train, making friends with other passengers, a vampire attack, and some other stuff so boom. In this alternate Victorian universe, vestibuled trains were invented in 1877. Or something.
> 
> I hope this creative liberty does not ruin the entire story. :P


	8. Act I - Chapter VIII

Buffy was still in their cabin by the time William managed to extract himself from the crime scene, thank God. She was standing by the lower bunk, small luggage packed and in hand. William pulled the door shut behind him and locked it.

“What’s wrong?” she asked in a thin, strained voice. “Is it the Council?”

“No,” William quickly reassured her. “Not them. But…”

“But…” she pressed.

William hesitated, hands picking at the edges of his pockets. He didn’t want to instantly alarm her again, but basic courtesies had, unfortunately, retreated to a small dark corner during their travels. The girl was better alarmed than dead.

“There was an attack,” William said, cautiously studying her face. “One of the passengers. A young woman. Trauma to the neck.”

Buffy swallowed. “Trauma?”

“A bite.”

William studied her further. He’d talked a great deal about various supernatural threats whilst she’d been a prisoner of the Council, but given the circumstances at the time, he wasn’t sure how much she’d listened or retained—

“Are you saying…” Buffy started slowly. “It was a vampire?”

Ah. A decent amount, it seemed.

“As far as I can tell.”

He waited for her face to go white all over again, but a kind of calm settled over it instead. The girl acquired a distant, studious look. She dropped the luggage back onto the bed and clasped her hands gently in front of her.

“So,” she finally said. “What do we do?”

William stared at her. “Do?”

“To stop it,” she said, staring back. “The things you and the others talked about… Do we have holy water? Stakes?”

Holy water.

Stakes.

As if she hadn’t experienced the loss of their bags and everything he’d brought with him from England herself. He supposed he had a collection of pencils that could be used in a _particularly_ desperate situation, but he wasn’t about to plant ideas. “Buffy,” he said. “We do nothing. From now until our next train, we do not leave this room unless it is absolutely necessary, and even then, only together. We do not go out at night. We do not open the door for anyone, even if they—”

“But isn’t this what a Slayer does?” A stubborn pout marred her innocent face. “Stop vampires?”

Christ. Of all the times for her to embrace her calling.

“Yes,” William said, trying to keep his tone controlled. “But you are not the Slayer. Vampires are extremely dangerous. More than you seem to realize.” When those words did nothing to smooth her face, he sighed. “With luck, this will be the creature’s last attack. With everyone’s suspicions roused, it would be reckless to strike again.”

“So… you’re saying it _could_ attack again.”

William frowned. “That’s not—”

“And so what if _we’re_ safe?” Buffy demanded. “What about Mr. Yardley, or the Renaud twins, or Mrs. Hanover, or—?”

“How do you know half the train?!” William demanded. “What part of ‘keep a low profile’ have you not understood?”

Buffy looked down at the floor, avoidant.

William felt his temper flare hot against his throat and chest, and then it faded. He sighed again. With a bone-weariness, he sat on the lower bunk and patted the seat beside him. Buffy stared at it for a moment before complying.

“I know it’s difficult,” he said, holding her eyes with his own. “But as long as we remain in our cabin, and remain together, everything should resolve itself for the better. Agreed?” He held out his hand.

Buffy stared at it without moving. Her fingers grasped each other, fidgeting—

“Agreed?” William repeated.

Buffy huffed out a sigh and shook it. “Agreed.”

* * *

It was his bladder that woke him, the world pitch black and jostling from the ever-constant rumble of the tracks. William tried to ignore it. He tried to roll over and wait until morning for when the short trip down the hallway would be safe again.

Or rather, safer.

However, as the minutes passed, the calling only grew until he couldn’t lie still anymore. Rolling out of his bed, he blindly groped the wall until he found the gas lamp. Once it was lit, he turned to the top bunk.

“Miss Summers,” he whispered, face flushing warm. He’d love nothing more than to take care of this business in private, but he’d made a promise to her just as she’d made one to him—neither would leave the cabin without the other. The least he could do was tell her where he was going and when to expect his return. “I… I have a matter to take care of.”

There was no response.

“Miss Summers?”

He took another step forward and peered over the bed’s railing.

It was empty.

* * *

Buffy crept down the dark hallway, legs shaking slightly with each step, the night’s chill seeping through her thin nightgown. It was easy to sneak around with the soft patter of her feet swallowed by the constant grind of metal against metal. She didn’t entirely know what she was searching for. It wasn’t the vampire, not specifically, though she’d do her best against it if she found it. No, the thing she was searching for was… an idea. Clues. Something.

And if she couldn’t find that, at least she’d warn her friends, something Mr. Pratt seemed determined to prevent as long as he was around.

Which was why she was out now.

As Buffy entered the next small area between cars and peered carefully through its window pane, her breath caught—a figure was in the hallway of the next sleeper car, dark against a sea of white privacy curtains.

And it was making its way toward her.

Buffy immediately ducked down. Had it seen her? What was it? She whirled back against the wall, trying to make herself as small as possible. It was so late, she hadn’t _actually_ expected to run into anyone. Mr. Pratt’s lecturing drifted back to haunt her. If the figure was the vampire, it could open the door and kill her. She had no stake. No sunlight. No holy water.

But neither did any of the other passengers. They were just as helpless. Maybe even more so. When Mr. Pratt had told her the name of the afternoon’s victim, Buffy hadn’t recognized it. But she knew so many others. Had met so many fellow passengers. If the vampire struck again, it might be Buffy writing the obituary.

She remained against the wall until her heart stopped hammering quite so loud, then crept back towards the window, squinting from its edge until—

Buffy pulled the door open.

“Mrs. Hanover?” she whispered.

The figure turned from where it’d been fiddling with the entrance of one of the curtained seats-turned-sleeping berths. A familiar face stared at her in confusion.

Buffy breathed out a sigh of relief. “Mrs. Hanover!” She rushed towards the old woman.

“Buffy?” Mrs. Hanover said, continuing to stare. “What on Earth—?”

Buffy nearly tackled her over in a hug. “You’re okay! I was so worried! For you! For everyone!”

“What are you talking…?” Mrs. Hanover pulled back. “The dead woman? From earlier?”

Buffy nodded.

“Oh, you reckless child. It was just some unfortunate animal attack. Nothing to worry your little head about. Everyone searched the train, engine to aft, and found nothing. It probably escaped miles ago at the last stop.”

“No, that’s not—!” Buffy stopped herself before she woke up the whole car. She swallowed, then tried again, quieter. “It’s still on the train. I _know_ it.”

Mrs. Hanover lifted an eyebrow. “You know it, do you?”

Buffy nodded again, more vigorously.

“Well, we can’t have that, can we?”

“No!” Buffy swallowed, thinking, until an idea hit her. A very sharp, wooden idea. “Your knitting needles. Can I borrow them?”

“My needles? Good heavens, why on Earth...?”

“It can hurt the vam—” Buffy stopped before she got herself labeled as crazy. Mrs. Hanover would never let her have the needles then. “It can hurt the animal.”

“So would a pistol, I’d think. And the attendants have plenty of those.”

“Please?” Buffy clasped her hands in front of her chest and put on her best begging face.

“Well…”

“ _Please?_ ”

“I suppose… If you promise to go straight back to your bed…”

“Of course,” Buffy lied.

Mrs. Hanover seemed to stare through her, stripping Buffy of her false compliance, but at last she sighed. “I can’t take my bedside needles out without damaging my current knitting; however…”

Buffy perked up. “However?”

“I do have an extra pair in my trunk. It’s in the luggage room.” She gestured down the aisle towards the door at the far end of the car.

“Oh,” Buffy said. “Okay.”

It was a bit of a delay, but still good. Her nighttime excursion had been worth it: she’d gotten to warn Mrs. Hanover _and_ was securing a future weapon against the vampire for when she found it.

Mrs. Hanover led her through the cabin-less sleeper car. White sheets had been pulled down around the converted berths, creating a narrow alleyway of cloth down the center. Jagged snores echoed from behind several of them. Pungent bodily odors wafted from others. Buffy pressed her lips together; the sheets offered privacy but no real protection. If the vampire was still on board, it’d have its pickings of the lot.

She needed those needles.

They crossed into the small space at the front of the car—a sign for the bathrooms on the left, luggage room on the right. As Mrs. Hanover closed the door behind them, Buffy’s hairs started to raise.

She looked at the floor.

Remembered Mr. Pratt’s description of where the train attendants had found the body.

“Anything the matter, dearie?” Mrs. Hanover asked.

Buffy jolted, looking up at the old woman’s kind face, and shook her head. “It’s— It’s nothing.” Putting on a smile, she nodded at the right door. “Luggage room? Right?”

Mrs. Hanover ushered her into said room, and Buffy gladly followed. Then, at the door, Mrs. Hanover paused. She bended over, clearly winded.

“Mrs. Hanover?” Buffy asked.

“Just an old woman’s aches and pains.” She shook her head. “Never get old.” She pulled out a key and gestured across the room. Trunks and bags crowded the space, criss-crossing each other with shadows from a single gas lamp and the thin sliver of moonlight from the window. “The blue one with bronze clasps. In the back.”

Buffy spotted it. “Got it.”

Taking the key, she made her way over to the specified trunk, rotated it onto its side, and opened it. A mess of lace and linens threatened to explode out. If there were knitting needles, they were buried in the clutter. She began to sift through the belongings as delicately as possible.

“Mrs. Hanover?” Buffy called out when she didn’t immediately find them. Her hands pushed past a stack of old envelopes. “Are they in a certain pouch, or…?”

“Oh, they’re in there, dearie.” The old woman’s voice was now breathy as well, lisped with exhaustion. “Keep searching.”

Buffy frowned, but did so. When she reached all the way to the bottom, twice, she pouted and turned. “I can’t find—”

She froze.

Yellow eyes were right behind her. Looming over her. They were set in a grotesque face, full of flashing fangs and a savage brow. All Buffy could do was stare at the face.

The demon’s face.

The vampire.

“What’s wrong, dearie?” it said, and oh God.

It was Mrs. Hanover.

The vampire was Mrs. Hanover.

“I— I…” Buffy stammered.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Its dull eyes twinkled as it smiled. “Or something worse.”

Reaching behind her, Buffy grabbed the first thing in the trunk and threw it at the vampire. A nightgown. It hit her face, blinding her, and she had to claw at it to tear it off.

Buffy ran.

She needed to get out of the luggage room and back to other people. To the sea of curtains. Maybe if they all saw…

If they all teamed up together—

Hands gripped the back of her dress and yanked.

Buffy tumbled to the floor, spine hitting it with a crack. She let out a cry of pain. Mrs. Hanover was over her. Blocking her. The yellow eyes continued to bore into her own, paralyzing her as they grew closer, invading her face, invading her world. The vampire grabbed her arms, skin cold against her own. Buffy struggled, but despite Mrs. Hanover’s frail frame and thousand wrinkles, her grip was iron strong. It was like fighting against a mule.

“Small thing like you,” Mrs. Hanover said. “Not a full meal, I’m afraid. But it’ll tide me over till the next stop.” She paused to breathe in, sniffing Buffy like a fresh chicken roast. “Can’t do with two dead bodies in a single trip, but…” She glanced at the window. “They never have to find the body, now do they?”

Buffy felt sick. Panic set in, and she struggled all over again.

It was no use.

She couldn’t move.

It was all too late. She’d made a terrible mistake. She should’ve listened to Mr. Pratt. She should’ve never left the cabin like he’d told her. She should’ve never followed anyone—even Mrs. Hanover—into an empty room. She should’ve never—

Fangs pierced her neck, and she screamed.

It burned like fire and ice and everything in between. She was going to die. She was—

Mrs. Hanover suddenly paused. She withdrew, lifting herself off Buffy, and stared at her, mouth dripping with blood…

And then she exploded in a cloud of dust.

Buffy was left on the floor, breathing hard. Her limbs shook from where they’d been pinned. Her hand lifted of its own accord and clamped around her neck, wet and warm and sticky with blood. As her heart slowed and her brain finally started to kick back into reality, she realized there was another person in the room. Another person just beyond where Mrs. Hanover had pinned her to the floor. He was holding a small fistful of pencils and breathing heavily himself, white shirt only half-buttoned and glasses askew.

Mr. Pratt.

It took him a minute, like her, to become fully aware again. Once he did, he aimed the weight of his ire at her. “What were you thinking?” he demanded.

“I— I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to— I thought… I—”

Her babbling was cut off as he tossed his makeshift stake away and crushed her into a hug. His body was warm, his heartbeat strong and reassuring. She felt herself start to cry, softly at first, ashamed of herself, then loud and ugly. She wailed against his shoulder.

“It’s okay,” Mr. Pratt said between low, shushed tones and awkward pats. “You’re safe. It’s over now.”

“B—but it was… she was… Mrs. Hanover…” Buffy withdrew with a sniff and looked at where the vampire had been. Only a smattering of barely visible dust remained. “She was nice. She was….” The old woman’s trunk was still open, full of cloth and ribbon and other odds and ends. “…normal.”

“Buffy, look at me.”

Buffy did. Her bottom lip threatened to quibble all over again.

“That’s just a mask,” Mr. Pratt said, his face hard. “The vampire’s mask. Its way of lowering your guard. And it worked, didn’t it?” He waited until Buffy meekly nodded, then went on: “Vampires are not the person they pretend to be. They’re nothing but soulless mimics. Any kindness they show is only part of the trap they weave.”

His words struck low and cold in Buffy’s gut. Slowly, she let go of her neck. It wasn’t bleeding very badly anymore, though it still stung. She looked back at the trunk. Despite Mr. Pratt’s explanation, it still looked… wrong. She sat herself beside it, and Mr. Pratt didn’t stop her as she sifted through its belongings one last time for anything evil or supernatural she could’ve missed—a blood-soaked rag, a witch’s talisman, a journal full of sordid tales of past killings… But there was nothing. It remained a normal trunk. Buffy wondered how long Mrs. Hanover had been a vampire for. Wondered if she’d acquired the piece of luggage before or after her turning. It was the only explanation…

Her fingers latched around a small purse.

Buffy pulled it out and examined its insides. A wad of dollar bills lay nested inside. She stared at it. Thinking.

“Buffy?” Mr. Pratt said.

Taking a deep breath, she tossed the purse to Mr. Pratt, who fumbled with it for a moment. “You said it yourself,” Buffy said stiffly. “Mrs. Hanover wasn’t a person anymore. She was a vampire. And now she’s not even that.”

“That’s… true.” He was now looking inside the purse himself, thinking, no doubt, the same thoughts Buffy had.

She left him at that and busied herself with locking up the trunk. When it was done, she held onto the key, its metal cold in her grip. If she threw it away right now, threw it out the window like Mrs. Hanover had wanted to throw _her_ out… would the trunk ever be opened again?

She settled for tucking the key up into the small fold above her wrist cuff.

“Mr. Pratt?” she said, waiting until he looked up from the purse. “I… I _am_ sorry. Truly. I should’ve listened to you. I… I…”

Mr. Pratt sighed. “I forgive you, Buffy. This… this…”—he gestured to the room, purse swinging—“ _everything_ is simply… The world shouldn’t be like this. But it is. And for that, _I’m_ sorry to you.”

Buffy swallowed. “Mr. Pratt, I—”

There was a bang from the hallway. Buffy’s hand flew to her neck. Mr. Pratt quickly shoved the purse into one of his trouser pockets. Seconds later, a uniformed man burst into the luggage room. “What’s going on? Someone reported a scream.”

Buffy and Mr. Pratt stared the attendant, then at each other.

Buffy found her voice first. “I— I heard about the wild animal. The one that attacked the other passenger? I…” She pitched her voice higher. Tried to sound more innocent. “I like animals. And they like me. I thought I could tame it. But it attacked me. Here.” She waved at the room with her free hand as if it wasn’t obvious. “I screamed. And then Mr— I mean, my brother, saved me.”

The attendant regarded her with clear skepticism. “Where is the animal now?”

“Umm…” Mr. Pratt said.

“We tossed it out the window,” Buffy said. “It was a snake.”

“A snake,” the attendant repeated.

Buffy nodded. She took her hand off her neck, exposing what had to be two symmetrical bite marks.

The attendant flinched backwards. “I see…” he said, trying to collect himself back into whatever counted for professional stoicism this far West. The story sounded ridiculous even to Buffy’s own ears, but she couldn’t think of any fact he could directly dispute. Her wounds would match those found on the victim’s body. Wounds that no human could create. Of course, Mrs. Hanover would be nowhere to find in the morning, Buffy realized, gut sinking. It would raise questions, to be sure. Buffy and Mr. Pratt would potentially have to give a second round of statements, but again, no evidence pointed back to them.

It was all dust on the floor.

“Can the two of you relate this to the conductor?” the attendant asked.

Buffy glanced at Mr. Pratt, who looked displeased but resigned. She had to find a way to make it up to him. “Of course,” she heard herself say.

As the attendant gestured them out of the luggage room, they followed, Buffy’s hands clasped politely in front of her with Mrs. Hanover’s key still cold against her wrist, and Mr. Pratt’s hand locked heavy against her back.


	9. Act I - Chapter IX

The Californian sun beat down against the train, baking its insides. Buffy fought the urge to tug at her sweat-soaked collar as she made her way down the central hallway. The going was slow with everyone else grabbing and dragging their own luggage, but she wasn’t worried about getting off in time.

The train had reached the end of the line.

Mr. Pratt disembarked first. He extended his free hand to help Buffy down the steep metal steps. As she took it, his grip startled her, unexpectedly warm and strong, a soothing balm for the horrors of the last several months. His tawny hair gleamed in the sun.

“Buffy?” Mr. Pratt asked, frowning.

Buffy jolted. She realized she’d stopped, hand in his at the top of the steps. Someone let out an impatient cough behind her. Cheeks flushing, she half-stepped, half-jumped off the train. The landing sent small shocks through her knees. Mr. Pratt continued to eye her, seemingly concerned, but ultimately shook his head and began directing them towards the platform exit.

As they passed a large sign reading ‘River Station,’ Buffy swallowed. Her heart began to pound. This was real. This was happening. Beyond the narrow train tracks, familiar carts trotted past familiar, white-washed buildings. Women and men milled about their day with familiar straw hats. The sky was sunny. The dirt roads were scarred with wheel tracks. The air was ripe with the smell of livestock.

They were home.

A couple horses and carts waited at the end of the short platform. Mr. Pratt stopped well ahead of them and wrinkled his nose.

“What?” Buffy said.

“Nothing, just…” His eyes swept over the meager offerings. “Aren’t there any covered ones?”

“No.”

Mr. Pratt frowned. “But what if it rains?”

“It doesn’t.”

Mr. Pratt stared at her like she had to be lying. Buffy just sighed and gestured him forward. Finally, with a little disgruntled shift, Mr. Pratt approached the nearest cart. Buffy hung back as she always did when Mr. Pratt told the driver their destination, but it was harder this time. She practically bounced with nervous energy. _Painful_ energy. It took all she had not to snap forward and grab hold of the reins herself.

At last the deal was done, and she hopped in the back with Mr. Pratt. He steadied their small luggage and then, with a jolt, they were off, bouncing along the uneven street towards Poppy Hill.

Their secret rendezvous place.

 _Meet me where I tore my dress on a day I bought the cakes_ , was the message she and Mr. Pratt had ultimately sent via telegram. Translation being: meet on Poppy Hall on a Wednesday. And, thanks to the unpredictable nature of train schedules in the West, today happened to be a Wednesday.

Buffy buried her hands in her skirts, squeezing the cotton into tight bunches.

“Buffy?” Mr. Pratt asked.

Buffy bit her lip. She hesitated to say her fears out loud. Make it real. “What if…” she started. “What if Mom didn’t get the telegram? Or what if she didn’t understand it? Or… Or what if the Watchers got the telegram and they _did_ understand it?”

“That won’t happen.”

“But—”

“It won’t.” Mr. Pratt keep his gaze focused on the street ahead. Buffy wondered what he thought of it: the sparse Main Street of a farming town of only eight thousand. It was hardly comparable to his own sprawling London. “It won’t.”

Buffy wished she had his assurance.

After what seemed like forever, they reached the base of Poppy Hill and dismounted. Yellow-green grass rose up before them in wave after endless wave. No flowers though. It was the wrong season. Buffy used to picnic here with her mother. Once, Owen the tailor’s son had challenged her to a race, one she hadn’t been able to refuse. And she’d kept her own… until she’d slipped and torn her Sunday dress. Her mother _had_ not been amused. It all seemed lifetimes ago, but was simultaneously clear in her mind.

Buffy scanned the hilltop as Mr. Pratt paid the driver. She couldn’t see her mother, but there were some trees peppered here and there that someone could theoretically be standing behind, not to mention the hill’s other half that was currently out of view…

Mr. Pratt’s hand rested on her shoulder, and she jumped.

“Sorry,” he said with a contrite grimace. He nodded at the hill. “Shall we?”

Taking her arm in his, they began climbing the grassy slope. Buffy’s legs were jittery, and she kept her eyes glued upwards instead of at her feet, so she stumbled several times but always managed to recover. As the first figures came into sight, half-hidden by a tree, Buffy nearly called out. She bit her tongue just in time. It was simply an older, grey-haired couple enjoying the afternoon sun. They spared passing glances at Buffy and Mr. Pratt, but nothing more.

The further they rose, the further her stomach sank. As they neared the top, Buffy slipped her arm from Mr. Pratt’s and ran the rest of the way. At last, she stood on the hill’s peak, no other person in sight, her breath shallow and trembling. All she could do was wordlessly stare at the expanse below her, the river snaking through her small town past rolling fields and pastures to the sea.

Her mother wasn’t here.

Buffy had made it halfway across the world, had made it home… and her mother wasn’t here.

“Perhaps…” Mr. Pratt said, coming up beside her. “She didn’t receive the telegram?”

Buffy turned with a glare. _Now_ he shared her fears?

“It isn’t the end of the world,” he continued. He stared, like her, out across the horizon of said world. “I suppose we could stop by the hotel.”

Buffy frowned. “You said that was too dangerous.”

“I’ve said a lot of things,” he muttered, somewhat darkly. Buffy stared at him until he closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. “We have two options. Avoid the Summers Hotel completely for seven days until next Wednesday… or go now. There is ultimately risk in both options.”

“You said the Watchers might be waiting for us at the hotel.”

“They might.”

Buffy swallowed. She remembered hands on her mouth, hands clamping painfully around her arms, dragging her from her childhood bed, then blackness. She remembered waking up in chains and the cold way they chafed her skin until it bled.

She rubbed her wrists, trying to rub off the memory with it. They _could_ go to the hotel. She could potentially see her mother again in as little as an hour.

She could potentially be captured and chained up again.

Buffy wanted to risk it. She wanted to run home right now. She’d been waiting too long, trapped for too long, and it was sunny. The Watchers had come for her at night, slithering, like the own vampires they claimed to hunt. As long as she got there and raced off before sunset, she could be okay. She and Mr. Pratt had outrun the Watchers once before, they could do it again. It was _worth_ the risk.

For her.

Mr. Pratt continued to look at her, waiting for her answer. He was different from the scrawny, stammering man who’d awkwardly shuffled into her cell all those weeks ago. His posture was straighter, his shoulders surer. His pallid English clamminess had thawed into a Western glow that was now dusted with freckles. However, beneath it all, there was a still a tight, sheen of fear to his eyes.

Beneath the bravery, terror.

“We can wait,” Buffy heard herself say. “The train moves quick. We may have beaten the telegram.”

Mr. Pratt frowned for a moment, seemingly wise to her cool facade, but then he nodded. “We’ll wait an hour,” he said, gesturing to the surrounding hill. “Then we’ll find some place to stay for the week.”

* * *

The candlelight flickered as it cast warm shadows on the walls of the small room. Buffy felt a twinge of guilt, staying at one of her mother’s competitors, but there weren’t many alternatives in her small town. So, she instead focused on undoing the buttons of the top layer of her dress. With only one, she had to take extra precautions to keep it clean, and that meant definitely _not_ sleeping in it, even if she didn’t have a proper nightgown. Once she was done, she folded it neatly on her bed that, for the first time all month, wasn’t stacked atop another but rather side-by-side with a twin. Which, speaking of…

She glanced right at said twin. Mr. Pratt had already slipped beneath its sheets and pulled them over his head as if to prove his dedication to Buffy’s modesty.

Her lips pressed together against a smile. She should’ve been embarrassed, sharing a room with a man who wasn’t family, but after the tight quarters of steam ships and cross-continental trains, the current situation only seemed like a less extreme version of something she’d already been doing. Still, she couldn’t deny just a little elicit shiver as she climbed in bed and blew out the candle.

“It’s safe,” Buffy announced.

Despite the new protective cover of darkness, the lump that was Mr. Pratt kept his head beneath his sheets. Buffy rolled her eyes and settled back for her own sleep.

It didn’t come.

She should’ve expected that. Her brain was racing too fast. Thinking of too many things. There were a thousand things that could go wrong. Had potentially already _gone_ wrong. The Watchers could find them here at the inn. They could burst through the door right when Buffy least expected it. They could—

She was interrupted by a soft groan. An _irritated_ groan.

“Mr. Pratt?”

Silence, then:

“Nothing,” he muttered back. He shifted in bed, the sound echoing. “Just… if the Yanks were dying to live somewhere _this_ hot, might as well have buggered off to hell instead of starting a whole bloody revolution.”

Buffy snorted. She liked when Mr. Pratt complained about things; he didn’t do it very often. “The desert was hotter,” she said, grimacing at the memory of a sweltering cabin.

“Not at night.”

That was true.

Buffy stared at the ceiling, black and distant above her. For a month she’d been staring at ceilings like this. And now…

“What happens next?” she asked. Silence swallowed her words. Their ghosts hung in the still room. “You can’t go back to London, can you? And my mom and I can’t stay here either…” She swallowed, heard the sound echo against her own head, and half-longed for the clatter of the train tracks again. “So, what next?”

There was a sigh from the other bed.

“I don’t know,” Mr. Pratt said.

Buffy bit her lip. It was her fault, ultimately. All of this.

“You… you could come with us,” she ventured. “If you want to. Or don’t want to. It’s up to you. I know I’ve been a burden, and—”

“No! No, don’t think that.” He threw his sheets off his head and turned to face her. Or rather, faced her general direction; his head casted about, like his eyes hadn’t adjusted to the dark yet. “Don’t think of yourself a burden. Please. It… it has been one of the greatest privileges of my life, helping you.”

Buffy stared at him. “A privilege?”

“Always,” Mr. Pratt said.

“Even the thing with Mrs. Hanover?”

“Mmm… _almost_ always.”

Buffy snorted, the sound quickly morphing into soft giggles. A small golden glow bloomed in her chest, warm and peaceful. She closed her eyes for a moment, and then her smile faded. “Come with us,” she said. It was half-command, half-plea.

“It would be my continued privilege.”

Buffy smiled. She readjusted herself in bed, tucking her sheets up to her shoulders and shifting against the pillow, searching for the perfect balance of softness. Mr. Pratt and her and her mother… It would be hard, starting over somewhere new, continuously evading the Watchers… but as long as they were all together, they’d find a way to make it work.

“Mr. Pratt?” she said, looking at the ceiling again.

“Yes?”

“I’m glad I met you.”

The seconds passed with no response. Buffy’s stomach tightened, and she began to feel rather silly and small about the childish confession, until…

“I’m glad I met you too.”

* * *

A week’s passage brought with it an equally empty hill.

It was hard keeping a stiff upper lip for Buffy when they first arrived; William had to reassure her that it was still morning, that it was possible Mrs. Summers intended to come closer to noon, and that was why they’d packed a small picnic to inconspicuously wait if need be. It was harder still keeping that upper lip after the sun hit its zenith and began its descent.

“She’s not coming,” Buffy said.

It was both a prediction and statement that William couldn’t dispute. “The telegram must’ve been lost,” he finally managed.

“But—”

“It was lost. We said this could be a possibility, did we not?”

Buffy stared up at him like a half-starved London stray. Slowly, she nodded. William knew she was eating herself up inside. He knew because he was too. He wanted to be hopeful, but the situation could only go downhill from here.

Literally.

“And we planned for this, did we not?” William continued.

Buffy nodded again, stronger.

William stood and moved off their small picnic blanket, which had been bustled out of the inn beneath a rather un-watchful eye. He motioned for her to do the same.

“We’re going _now_?” Buffy asked.

“Would you rather us wait for sunset?”

Buffy quickly shook her head. She followed his movements and helped him pack up the meager picnic. It hadn’t been much, just variations on the cold sandwiches they’d eaten for the past month, and today Buffy had only managed half of hers. William watched as she carefully wrapped it in its linen cloth and placed it in their travel bag. He’d wanted to upgrade the bag to something larger during their week-long wait, but since they were still technically on the run, it’d seemed impractical. They had to be ready to move, and quickly, especially now that they were about to visit the one place he’d sworn to avoid.

Once everything had been packed away, William held out his hand. Buffy stared at it for a moment before taking it, then they began their descent. At the street below, they signaled a farmer headed in the right general direction and hitched a ride.

Sitting among baskets of lemons and oranges, it struck William that this wasn’t a future he could’ve ever _possibly_ imagined for himself. The afternoon sun continued to beat down as it had all week. Even with the straw hat he’d bought (and that Buffy had insisted was fashionable) sweat dripped down his brow. He wiped at it only for new moisture to bead up within seconds.

“Do you want to go somewhere colder?” Buffy asked.

William turned, staring at her. “What?”

“After… this?”

“Oh. Perhaps.” He glanced at the farmer up in the driver’s seat, but the man didn’t seem to be paying much attention to them. Still, he kept his voice low as he added: “It’d be easier to get lost somewhere warmer.”

“Really?”

“Of course. There’s Australia, India, Saigon… The last one’s owned by the French, so might be a tad more inhospitable to the Council.”

“Huh.”

Buffy’s face held a bit of a scrunched pout to it, but she didn’t say anything else. Neither did William. His head spun with possibilities, all of them seeming more and more ludicrous the more he thought them over. Finally, he forced himself back to the immediate present. Touched the bills stored in his jacket pocket. Focused on their slim weight against his fingers. He and Buffy were ready to run if needed. Whatever the Summers Hotel brought… they’d survive.

Eventually, the farmer’s cart pulled up towards a two-story building that was just as Buffy had described. Its white exterior was trimmed with blue, small pink and yellow wildflowers dotted the flower boxes, and a small grove of palm trees casted shade against the southern end. The only thing that _didn’t_ match her description was the sign above the entrance: _Garland Hotel_.

Buffy stared at the sign, its letters getting bigger and bigger as they passed, then smaller again as farmer continued onwards obliviously.

“S-Stop!” Buffy managed. She barely waited for the man to comply, jumping out of the back while the cart was still rolling.

“Buffy!” William shouted.

But the girl was already sprinting towards the door, caution they’d discussed be damned. William muttered a soft curse, and, with a distracted thank you to the farmer, quickly followed. She was already inside the hotel’s small lobby by the time he caught up, her hands pressed against the check-in counter. A young woman stood on the other side, brown hair tucked up into a sensible bun and already pinched face pinched even further as she stared at the girl.

“Buffy?” the woman said. “How did—? Where?”

William hurried closer.

“Where’s Mom?” Buffy demanded. “Why is the sign—?” Her voice caught. “Why is the sign wrong?”

“I… That’s…” The woman looked stricken. Her eyes flickered to William as he came to a standstill behind Buffy. “Who’s this?”

“Huh?” Buffy turned. “Oh, that’s Mr. Pratt. He helped me get back.”

“Back from _where_? You disappeared, Buffy. Over night. We were all sick with—”

“Where’s my mother?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.” The woman swallowed, looking back and forth between Buffy and William as if she didn’t know who to address. “When Mrs. Summers couldn’t find you—when we _all_ couldn’t find you—she sold the hotel to the Garlands. Used the money to go search for you. She… She’s gone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting close to the end of Act One. A couple disjointed historical notes/pictures for this one. Mostly pictures to get the feel of LA as a small farming town back then (its major growth spurt didn't happen until the 1880s (US Census pegs its 1880 population at 11k and its 1900 population at 100k)):
> 
> 1\. The first train station that serviced LA was [River Station](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/River_Station_\(Los_Angeles\))
> 
> 2\. A picture of [Pasadena's Colorado Boulevard](https://www.lamag.com/citythinkblog/citydig-pasadenas-colorado-boulevard-in-1880/) circa 1880
> 
> 3\. A bird's-eye view [engraving of LA](https://www.loc.gov/resource/g4364l.pm000260/?r=0.037,0.035,0.834,0.374,0) circa 1877
> 
> 4\. Poppy Hill is completely made up. Don't attempt to look for it :P


End file.
